A Sort of Homecoming
by Trisse
Summary: COMPLETE! Here are the last two chapters! Home is where the heart is, they say. Luka is brought back from Africa. Will he be able to find home? Based on spoilers for season 10.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story.  
  
I would like to thank Mrs. Eyre and VjeraNadaLjubav for beta reading and encouragement, and to Annuscka for being my first reader and giving me the last push for posting this one.  
  
*** Carter cringed at the foul smell in the hut as he approached the form lying on the floor. It was covered with a stained blanket and he couldn't tell where the head or the feet were, but it was trembling, or rather, shaking violently, so it was alive. Now he only had to find out if it was Luka. He crouched by it and called Luka's name out, first softly, then in a firmer tone. The shape didn't move and Carter knew he would have to uncover it if he wanted to find out the truth. His hand hovered over the form for a moment, but somehow he couldn't make himself touch it. What if it wasn't Luka? He'd have to start his search all over again. And what if it was?  
  
Suddenly, Carter took the blanket and pulled it away, grimacing at the stench. He uncovered a dark haired man, covered in filth and dry blood, lying in fetal position. Carter couldn't see his face, so he took him by the shoulder and turned him over. The man moaned and Carter stared at the sunken and pained features. It was Luka. There was a bruise on his forehead and he had a badly swollen black eye. Gillian crouched by Carter, took Luka's face in her hands and called out his name. One, two, three times. Luka didn't open his eyes. It seemed that he couldn't hear her.  
  
Out of sheer instinct, Carter started to take Luka's vitals and to try to figure out what was wrong with him. Something had to be terribly wrong, since Luka's skin was almost ashen in color. He was running a high fever, was dehydrated, and the stench coming from his body told of a severe diarrhea. Carter felt Luka's belly and Luka gave out a sharp cry and opened his eyes for a brief moment. Carter was pretty sure that Luka was sick with malaria, but a sixth sense told him there had to be something else. He checked Luka's arms. There were cuts on both of them, and a large bruise on his left forearm, up to his elbow. He looked up at Gillian. She had stood up and had been talking to the woman in the hut for the last few minutes.  
  
"Gillian," he called out. "Gillian, I really need you here." Why did she choose to chitchat when it was obvious her help was indispensable?  
  
"Carter, this woman says Luka was run down by a truck yesterday, when they came to the camp."  
  
"What?" Carter couldn't stop the panic from showing in his voice.  
  
"He'd been sick for over a week and he just jumped off from the truck they were traveling in and was run down by the next one. She says he was raving. He couldn't stand up afterwards," Gillian's voice was neutral, as if she was reading the weather report. Carter glared at her for a minute while the cold hand of dread seized him deep inside. He knew that Gillian was faking self-confidence out of her own fear. He could see it in her eyes. He turned around and opened up Luka's shirt to assess him better.  
  
"I need your help," he said, trying to keep his voice as neutral as Gillian's had been. He had to get Luka out of there.   
  
Debbie had been trying to keep up a nonchalant conversation with the two young men in front of her for the past ten minutes but had failed miserably. The fact that they were holding automatic weapons almost larger than themselves didn't make things any easier. They were also extremely suspicious about her and her two companions, despite the fact they had arrived to the camp in a jeep marked with the Red Cross.  
  
After two or thee unsuccessful starts, Debbie had offered the men a smoke and had asked them to keep the cigarettes. Now they were all smoking in silence. Debbie was trying to take deep and slow drags of smoke out of her cigarette so her nervousness wouldn't show. What could be taking Gillian and Carter so long? She knew it was better not to stare openly at the entrance of the hut, so she had turned her back at it, instead looking at the bottom of the valley. It was a nice view - one could see the road climbing up the steep slopes of the hills, like a deep red cut in the green vegetation. Great. Now she was thinking about wounds and blood once again. Debbie turned around when she heard a slight rustle behind her back.  
  
Carter had emerged from the hut and was approaching them, blinking in the sunlight. The men tensed immediately. One of them threw away the butt of his cigarette and put a hand near the trigger of his gun. Carter lifted his hands instinctively, but faced Debbie instead.  
  
"He's in there," he said. "He's alive, but we have to get him out of here. He needs to get to a hospital."  
  
Debbie's eyes widened.  
  
"A hospital?" she asked.  
  
The nearest thing to a hospital was the one in Kisangani, four hours away if they were lucky, and Carter knew about the limited treatment options there.  
  
"He needs to get to the OR. He has multiple fractures and peritonitis. We have to get the infection under control."  
  
"To the OR?" repeated Debbie, astounded.  
  
He spoke as if he was in some kind of well-equipped university hospital, not in the middle of the jungle in a country torn by war.  
  
Carter nodded, apparently not aware of the absurdity of their conversation.  
  
"What is he saying?" demanded the boldest of the lads.  
  
He was tall and had a fierce look in his eyes. Debbie had tried to calculate his age and had concluded he must be getting close to his twenties. His buddy, who was very shy and didn't dare look her directly in the eyes, was probably around sixteen.  
  
Debbie faced them and tried to sound nonchalant.  
  
"The man in that hut is the one we're looking for. We're going to take him with us."  
  
The young man shook his head slowly and defiantly.  
  
"You aren't."  
  
"What? You told us we could get him."  
  
"He's alive, not dead. We said you could get a body, not a living person."  
  
Debbie sighed. The guy wanted to get a better deal for himself.  
  
"What is he saying?" asked Carter.  
  
"Okay, it seems fair." ventured Debbie, disregarding Carter's question.  
  
"Hey, Debbie. What is he saying?" Carter was insistent. He took her by the arm and forced her to look at him. Debbie noticed how the lad tensed when Carter spoke.  
  
"He wants something else for your friend. Let me."  
  
Carter faced the lad, defiantly.  
  
"What do you want, then? This?" he asked while he started to unfasten the watch from his wrist.  
  
It was a fine Rolex. It was probably the most expensive thing Carter had on. The next thing he would pull out would be money, and that would be a mistake. Debbie took him by the arm and pushed him back while she stepped forward.  
  
"Let me handle this, Carter. You don't know anything about handling things like this."  
  
It was too late. The guy had taken the watch and was examining it. Then he threw it away as if it had been a dirty rag. Carter reddened.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Carter!" Debbie squeezed Carter's arm to force him to look at her. "Let me do this!"  
  
Carter stared into Debbie's eyes for a second. He suddenly seemed extremely defenseless and weary. The cool professionalism with which he had spoken when he had got out of the hut had vanished.  
  
"Okay," he muttered.  
  
Debbie glanced around. A couple of other rebels had noticed Carter's brief argument and were staring at them. The lines on the face of the tall guy had hardened with nervousness. He wasn't very high in rank and just wanted to take advantage of the situation if he could, and he wouldn't be able to do so if all his comrades were staring at him. Debbie drew another package of cigarettes out of her pocket.  
  
"Let's have another smoke," she said, offering the first cigarette to the man. She then offered one to his companion. She held out the open package for Carter and prayed he would take one without comments. Carter hesitated for a second but then he stuck the cigarette between his lips. The tall guy held out a lighter for her.  
  
"Thank you," she said, the first puff of smoke coming out her mouth as she spoke. She watched how the two of them lighted their cigarettes, taking their time, deliberately making Carter wait. He didn't seem too bothered, though. He was staring at the ground while the cigarette hung loosely from between his lips.  
  
"Shouldn't we sit down?" Debbie nodded towards the shadow of the trees and hoped the two rebels would accept. They quickly looked around and then the taller one motioned her with an almost gallant gesture. Debbie took the lead and sat down. The two rebels squatted in front of her and Carter sat by her side, a little further away. He let his arms rest on his knees, the smoking cigarette now between his fingers. Well, at least he would let her carry this out.  
  
She looked at the two guys in front of her.  
  
"So. You want your buddy back?" the tall one asked, something in the tone of his voice making Debbie's skin crawl.  
  
How should she handle this? Should she tell this guy that the man in the hut wasn't that important for them anyway to lower the prize? No, that wouldn't do. The way Carter and Gillian had hurried into the hut and the expression on Carter's face when he came out to talk to her were more than evident. Besides, the situation here wasn't about lowering the price, it was only about getting Carter's friend out of the wretched place without letting the higher ranks notice.  
  
She just nodded. She had been about to tell the guy that retrieving the body of Carter's friend had been the reason for their journey but she decided against it in the last minute. It would make their position even more insecure than what it already was.  
  
The man smacked his lips and nodded in turn. The bargain had begun.  
  
"It may be complicated." he started. His voice trailed off. It was her cue.  
  
"I'm sure you'll be able to arrange something," she said.  
  
"It'll be expensive. I will need to talk to my commander."  
  
Debbie nodded towards Carter's watch.  
  
"That watch is expensive," she commented.  
  
"My commander is rather touchy. And to let a prisoner go like that is not..."  
  
The man fell silent, trying to find the right word.  
  
"Usual?" Proposed Debbie.  
  
"Yeah, that's it. Not usual."  
  
"Of course you'd also be rewarded for your efforts."  
  
The guy scratched his chin.  
  
"I don't know if I'll be able to convince him."  
  
"We'd appreciate it if you could."  
  
A brief pause followed.  
  
"I'll take his shoes," the guy said at last, pointing at Carter's feet.  
  
Carter looked up for the first time during the conversation.  
  
"What is he saying?" he asked.  
  
"He wants your shoes too," said Debbie.  
  
"My shoes? For Luka?"  
  
Debbie nodded and prayed that he wouldn't start undoing his laces right away, but Carter seemed stunned. He raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Really?"  
  
Oh God. That was the wrong word. It undervalued their trading item. Debbie held her breath. There was a strained silence, and then the shorter, quieter man spoke.  
  
"It's going to be very difficult," he said.  
  
Debbie looked at them. They waited patiently. They hadn't understood Carter's words and had misinterpreted his reaction, thinking that he was reluctant to let his shoes go. The taller one shrugged.  
  
"But then, if you can't." He started to stand up.  
  
And then Carter put out his cigarette and began to undo his laces.   
  
Debbie walked towards the jeep. Carter was standing by the open back door, looking fixedly at her.  
  
"What took you so long?" he complained when she was still at some distance from the car.  
  
Debbie sighed. She didn't want to argue with an overanxious American. They were all too loud and drew too much attention to themselves. They were not out of the camp yet, and for all she knew, Carter's friend could be unloaded from the Jeep at any moment.  
  
"We'll leave soon, Carter. Don't worry," she said curtly as she walked past him.  
  
"Don't worry? Don't worry? Hey, we've got a four hour journey ahead of us and he needs medical help immediately!"  
  
Debbie glanced into the back of the Jeep where Gillian was adjusting an IV attached to the forearm of an incredibly dirty and skinny man and tried not to retch as a wave of stench from the man hit her. Oh God. They'd be traveling for four hours with that smell.  
  
"It seems to me he's already getting some," she observed, making sure that she sounded as disdainful as she could. "Are you alright there, Gillian?"  
  
Gillian nodded.  
  
"Okay," said Debbie while she slammed the back doors and went around the jeep to get to the driver's seat.  
  
"We can't do enough, Debbie. We don't have antibiotics, and he really needs an operation!" Carter hadn't finished his argument, and in fact, looked like he was only getting started.  
  
"Carter, get into the Jeep or we might as well never leave!" Debbie snapped while she slammed the driver's door. Fortunately, Carter decided to follow her advice and climbed into the passenger's seat.   
  
Debbie rubbed her neck and then took a last drag from her cigarette. She threw the butt to the floor and crushed it carefully, before lifting her gaze and looking at the dark sky. There were so many stars out here in Africa. One of her favorite pastimes here was to look up at the sky; it was so gorgeous. She often told herself she should have learnt more about stars and constellations when she had had the chance. But not tonight. Tonight she was too exhausted to think about anything.  
  
She had driven four hours on rough dirt roads with a raving and moaning man in the back of the Jeep and a panicked doctor at her side, who kept on asking about the man's vitals every ten minutes. She had managed to stop Carter from urging her to go faster, but she hadn't been able to make him shut up.  
  
In the middle of the journey, Carter had decided they had to perform some kind of procedure on his friend and had climbed to the back where he had then insisted that Debbie had to stop the Jeep. They had been in the middle of a very unsafe zone, and she had refused to stop. The risk of being stopped by either rebel or government troops had been too high. Then she spent the next thirty minutes arguing heatedly with Carter, until he had decided to try his luck and perform the procedure while the jeep was still moving. Fortunately, they had been successful, and Carter had finally decided to keep his mouth shut. The last part of the journey had thus been pervaded by a funereal silence, and had seemed endless.  
  
If she hadn't been so drained, Debbie would have been utterly happy when she drove the jeep into the courtyard of the hospital at Kisangani and they finally took the poor wretch into the hospital. She thought about heading into the Red Cross quarters right there and then, taking a shower and crawling into bed, but had decided against it. She somehow couldn't rip herself away from that hospital; not before she found out if the guy had made it.  
  
Why did it suddenly seem so important to know about his condition? She wasn't even sure she could remember his name. Wait. Luke? No, Luka. Luka, that was it. So, how had she gotten so worried about this guy's health? Was it because of Carter's insane obsession to save his friend? Or because of Gillian's concern, so intense that her silence only made it more evident? Gillian had been kneeling down the whole journey, alternatively checking the IV on the guy's forearm, holding his hand and wiping his forehead and cheeks, apparently oblivious of the stench of his body and the constant jerks of the Jeep as it drove over what seemed to be every pothole between the camp and the hospital. Debbie was sure her knees must have been raw when they finally got to Kisangani, but Gillian just jumped from the back of the jeep and hurried along with the group that carried Luka into the hospital.  
  
Debbie shook her head while she realized once again she couldn't really identify what made her stay sitting on the bumper of the Jeep, waiting to see if this Luka made it through surgery. She looked at her watch. Ten forty-five. It had been more than three hours since they had arrived. Had they forgotten about her? It was very likely. She rose to her feet and then she spotted Carter coming out of the hospital.  
  
"So, how is he?"  
  
Carter shrugged wearily.  
  
"He's still alive."  
  
Debbie didn't know what to say. After a while she took out her package of cigarettes and offered one to Carter. He smiled.  
  
"Is this your version of a cure-all?"  
  
Debbie shrugged as she handed him the lighter.  
  
"If you can't cure them, kill them," she said. Then she shuddered. She couldn't believe she had said such nonsense.  
  
"I think the saying went somewhat differently," Carter said, his smile gone.  
  
"I'm sorry, Carter. I didn't mean it." Debbie laid a hand on Carter's shoulder, apologetically.  
  
"It's all right."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"No, it's not."  
  
Debbie sighed, appalled at her own foolishness. No, of course it wasn't. He had gone to great lengths to save his friend and there he was, not knowing if he would make it. He had been up since before dawn, had been traveling the whole day while working on his friend's injuries and had barely had anything to eat.  
  
"Tell you what," said Debbie in her kindest tone. "Why don't you come with me to the compound, have a shower, something to eat and some sleep."  
  
Carter smiled again, but shook his head.  
  
"I can't. Gillian and I will have to take turns."  
  
Debbie nodded.  
  
"You could take the second shift," she offered. "Get a shower and some food. I would drive you back and get Gillian to the compound."  
  
Carter rubbed his chin, grimacing as he felt the beginnings of stubble while he lifted his eyebrows.  
  
"That sounds very tempting. But I think Gillian should go first."  
  
"Sounds fair. And gentlemanly."  
  
That made him chuckle. He nodded towards the building.  
  
"I'll tell her."  
  
He turned around to go back to the hospital, but changed his mind and faced her again. The smile had faded once more and the lines of his face had hardened with worry.  
  
"Debbie."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'd like to ask another favor from you."  
  
"Sure."  
  
"We'll need to fly Luka to Kinshasa tomorrow."  
  
"To Kinshasa!?"  
  
"His pelvis is fractured and he's got a broken hip. He'll need orthopedic surgery. His kidneys might also be failing. He was very lucky, though. There was very little internal damage and no hemorrhage."  
  
Debbie sighed, annoyed at Carter's toplofty professionalism.  
  
"Are you aware of how difficult it is to get a flight to the capital? We're in the middle of a civil war, Carter."  
  
"I know, I know!" he exclaimed in exasperation. Then he looked straight into Debbie's eyes, and she was torn by his troubled and imploring look. "Debbie, please."  
  
Debbie closed her eyes, unable to look into his eyes any longer.  
  
"All right." she sighed. "But I don't know how much it will cost."  
  
Carter dug into his pocket and retrieved a large wad of bills. He put it in her hand, closing her fingers around it.  
  
"I hope this will be enough. If it isn't, tell me. I'll get Gillian."  
  
He turned around and walked briskly into the building, while Debbie watched him, surprised - but her surprise changed into astonishment when she realized what the denomination of the bills was and when she calculated just how much money he had given her. 


	2. Chapter 2

* * * *  
  
Luka was hit directly by pain. At one moment, there had only existed a blessed numbness. The world hadn't been there; he hadn't been there. The next, his whole body started to scream. His head and every muscle, every joint in his arms and legs hurt, but the worst was the pain in his abdomen. He felt as if he was being stabbed. He closed his eyes tighter and instinctively tried to shift on his side but his body refused his commands, and the pain only grew worse. There was a weird sound about him, a low, uncanny wail of some sort of animal. It frightened him.  
  
"Luka? Luka? Stay still. I know you are in pain, but try not to move." A firm and gentle voice came into the dark pitch that was his world and drowned out the inhuman moan. At the same time, a hand entered his and Luka clung to it, trying to overcome the fright and the agony.  
  
"Try to open your eyes, Luka."  
  
He fought to obey, to open his eyelids, but he couldn't. The moaning started again, and Luka panicked when he realised the ghoulish sound came from his own throat. A wave of nausea overtook him. The gentle voice started shouting all sorts of commands, the hand slipped out of his. He tried to grab it, to maintain the grasp on the only reassuring thing in his reality, but failed. Other hands turned him on his right side, while his entrails protested.  
  
"Slow down; slow down, Luka. Breathe," the voice was still gentle, but now there was an undertone of urgency in it.  
  
Luka's stomach was on fire and he couldn't master his breathing. Another wave of nausea stroke him and he plunged again into oblivion.   
  
* * * *  
  
The bead of sweat tickled his forehead as it trailed down, was momentarily caught in his eyebrow, slid down his temple and finally got lost in his hair. It was hot, so hot he almost couldn't breathe in the dry and scalding air. His lips were painfully dry and split, his throat was sore and parched. And then he became aware of the pain again. It floated within him, swelled and declined, concentrated in one limb and then flowed on to another. The sharpest still resided in his belly. Luka moved his hand to cover it, but his fingers bumped into a hard obstacle. He sensed the area gingerly. He found dressings, large and bulky dressings. He strained to open his eyes, to find out what had happened to him.  
  
Suddenly, he was facing a white ceiling, lit brightly by a shaft of morning light. He turned his head to better assess his surroundings and his eyes met the familiar red cross on a poster on the wall. Hospital. He was in a hospital. A Red Cross hospital. With what took an enormous effort, he lifted his hand to wipe his forehead. He noticed, at the same time, the IV attached to it and its incredible leanness. If his hands were so thin, he had to be emaciated. He let his hand drop on his chest as he realised where he was. The Red Cross hospital, the dressings, the fever, the emaciation. all fell into place.  
  
Vukovar had just fallen, he had been hit by a piece of shrapnel which Damir had managed to pull out from his side without any antiseptics or anaesthesia, had been considered as good as dead by the Serbs and had been left in the cellar of the Vukovar hospital while his colleagues and healthier patients were loaded in buses. He had been later picked up by the UNPROFOR forces. Oh God. He had survived. The rest lay in a mass grave. Dr. Meinl, Damir, Tatjana, the youngster that had taken over the functions of orderly in the past weeks. all shot.  
  
A knot formed in his throat and the pain increased as he fought back the tears. He covered his eyes with his hand and felt how the tears slid down his temples, leaving cool trails behind them as the images reeled once again under his eyelids. Images of Dr. Meinl operating, of Tatjana and Damir sharing their last cigarette, of the old lady he had managed to patch up raising her hand to bless him, the shy smile of their improvised orderly when he accepted a sip of tea. All were gone, and he was still there, in the grey purgatory he once used to call a life. He sobbed and his gasping breaths increased the pangs in his abdomen. But he couldn't stop crying and he wanted to drown in the pain, to draw away the thoughts, the memories.  
  
"Luka. Luka!"  
  
A hand touched his and lifted it from his face, and suddenly Luka confronted a familiar face. The strange thing was he couldn't quite tell who it belonged to, what her name was, where he had met her. He was sure he knew her. He somehow felt he trusted her, but he couldn't remember who she was.  
  
She caressed his cheeks tenderly and wiped away the tears.  
  
"Shhh. Shhhh." She whispered. "Everything's all right. You're safe, Luka. You're safe."  
  
But he didn't want to be safe. He didn't want to be. He didn't want to carry the memories with him, didn't want the regrets and the nightmares. He was so tired and in such pain that he only wanted to stop thinking, to scare off all traces of consciousness.  
  
Despite the reassuring touch, Luka floated away and stopped focusing on the kind eyes and vaguely familiar features. Instead, his sight went beyond her, towards the brightness of the morning light. His mind drifted off to a realm more basic and more primitive where there were no words, no thoughts, only physical sensation and a constant present, devoid of meaning.   
  
***  
  
Gillian looked through the small window and into the room before she laid her hand on the latch of the door. She didn't open it straightaway, though. She lingered a bit on the view in front of her.  
  
The room was brightly lit. The white walls, floor and sheets reflected the afternoon light that came in through the large window. Against them, Luka's dark hair and olive skin made a sharp contrast, making his gauntness even more evident. Gillian winced. She should have got used to seeing him like that by then, but she hadn't.  
  
He was incredibly lean; all roundness on his cheeks and shoulders had disappeared and his bones protruded sharply under the skin. The angular lines of his figure ironically matched the ones of the external fixator and other orthopaedic contrivances fixed into his hip, pelvis and left leg which stuck up under the sheet covering his body. Luka's face was partly turned towards the window, the stubborn stubble already darkening his cheek.  
  
The nurses at Kinshasa General Hospital complained it grew all too fast. Although they shaved him every morning, Luka seemed already untidy by the end of the afternoon, when the doctors came for their daily round. Gillian found their complaints amusing. They worried as much about Luka's appearance as if he was going to a reception with a minister. It was so ironic that they concentrated on such minutiae and never even mentioned the gravity of his ailments in their conversations. But Gillian knew that was a defence mechanism, a defence mechanism she also resorted to. She too held on to such petty details as his fast growing beard, or the fact that he seemed to like lemon jelly more than any other flavour, or his sight following her through the room whenever she had her bright purple t-shirt on. Otherwise, she would rapidly freak out.  
  
After he had overcome the last fevers caused by malaria, Luka had stopped babbling in Croatian and had, instead, become completely still. Nothing had made him utter the slightest word, nothing had wiped out the dull look in his eyes, nothing had been able to pull him out of the stupor he had plunged into. The doctors had trouble trying to assess his mental status. They thought probably malaria had affected him neurologically, though he hadn't been in a coma. They had also guessed he was suffering from some kind of post traumatic shock, but they couldn't really tell how much of his ailment was due to physical and how much to psychological causes. So prognosis was reserved. Reserved prognosis. Those two words still resounded in her ears and made chills run down her spine.  
  
Gillian glanced at Carter, trying to draw away the distressing thoughts. Carter was sitting on a plastic chair by Luka's bed, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He seemed to be dozing off. He had to be dozing off, having been already drained off earlier that afternoon, when he had offered to replace her. During the last fortnight, Carter had been displaying huge and unexpected resources to get things under control. He had, in fact, got in charge of everything. He had managed to fly Luka from Kisangani to Kinshasa, had found a bed in one of the most expensive private hospitals, had ensured he got surgery at the hands of the country's specialists.  
  
He was now trying to fly Luka to Chicago, a task that seemed overwhelming in sight of all the complications. Not only the risk of travelling with a seriously ill patient for over 18 hours made it an uncertain enterprise. Government in the Congo had grown suspicious of these foreigners which had popped up from a conflict area and landed in a first-rate hospital. Gillian and Carter had already had three visits from the police. They had even tried to question Luka. They would have done it, hadn't one of the doctors stood between the policemen and the door, and strongly advised them against it.  
  
The detectives had wanted to know what exactly had happened to Luka, what contacts had they had with the rebel forces and where the money that was paying for Luka's treatment had come from. After the enquiries, both Gillian and Carter had been warned they should stick to their present quarters until further notice. Surprisingly enough, their contracts with Alliance de Medicines International had not helped much to dispel the suspicion, and the fact Luka had no identification papers only worsened it.  
  
Luka's lack of an ID brought other problems along. Luka wouldn't be let out of the Congo without it. There was no Croatian embassy in the Congo, so there was no official stance that could provide him a passport. To apply to the nearest consulate through mail would take about a month. Carter had been considering flying into Croatia himself, but he had been told that since he was no family to Luka it wouldn't be of any help. Then he had thought of asking a member of Luka's family to apply for a passport, but he had learnt citizens had to do it personally. In a typical display of bureaucratic logic, the argument became a vicious circle forestalling any solution.  
  
Carter had been considering buying Luka a fake passport in the black market but that morning he had been off to talk to his acquaintance in the American embassy and had definitely been advised against it. The man had told him, though, that it was probable Luka would be let out of the Congo with another kind of ID, like his green card. Gillian was sure Carter would have been happy with the news, hadn't he been too tired and too swamped by all the requirements that were necessary for the American Embassy to issue a certificate that stated that Luka held a green card in the States.  
  
But despite the menacing mistrust of the Congo police, despite Luka's failing health, and the pile of hindrances he had to face, Carter was still in a surprisingly nonchalant mood. With his typical sense of humour, he had shrugged and told Gillian that what he really dreaded was having to phone to County and ask his chief for Luka's working papers. He maintained that even the police officers that had interviewed them were kinder than Robert Romano and Kerry Weaver. He had laughed when Gillian had asked him whether he thought Luka would thank him for getting him back to County if he would have to face such characters. However, despite his earlier display of insouciance, now he was sitting there, his head in his hands, and seemed completely disheartened.  
  
Carter and Luka seemed immersed in a painting by Hopper. Two people sharing the same, ample and brightly lit space but completely cut off from each other, each glancing into an indefinite spot. Gillian shivered. The same loneliness which she found appealing in Hopper's paintings was scary in that hospital room. She grabbed the latch and carefully opened the door.  
  
She managed a bright smile when Carter looked up to her. They kept up a cheerful front for each other. Otherwise, they would have been immersed in such dismay they wouldn't have been able to face their day to day problems.  
  
"So, how are you two, sleepy heads?" Asked Gillian.  
  
Carter smiled and shrugged slightly.  
  
"Sleepy," he said.  
  
He watched as Gillian bent over Luka, stroked his cheek and murmured some soft words in French. She always talked to him whenever she was in the room. It didn't matter that she never got an answer. She kept on addressing him, touching him, holding his hand. Carter was happy for that. He considered himself fortunate to have had Gillian as a companion through all this. She had been an extraordinary help in their journey to the refugee camp and back, and here she provided a kind of support Carter was in desperate need of.  
  
On the one hand she was all the time trying to come into contact with Luka. Carter knew that was something essential given Luka's state, but he was himself too aware of the possible damage to his brain to even attempt it. So whenever he was with Luka he invariably fell silent and almost didn't touch him. On the other hand, Gillian had also become the bridge between him and the French-speaking hospital personnel. She was always there for the medical rounds, and had served as a translator between him and the doctors that were taking care of Luka.  
  
She had been indispensable during the first days, when Carter had entered into a heated argument as to how much pain medication Luka was to be given. There were, evidently, different pain standards in the Congo and the U.S. The Congolese doctors had been shocked when they learnt Carter's idea of the amount of painkillers that Luka should be administered. But they had luckily given in at last. Carter had hated to see Luka in so much pain as he had been the whole trip from the refugee camp to Kisangani, and then to Kinshasa. Not that it had helped much, anyway.  
  
Carter often asked himself if he should be happy for Luka's good fortune. What good was it that he hadn't suffered from a worse infection, or haemorrhage, or kidney failure if he was just lying there, unable to come into contact with what surrounded him? He wiped his forehead with his hand and tried a smile when he noticed Gillian's look of concern.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't hear what you said. What was it?"  
  
"I said you need to get some sleep, Carter."  
  
"Yeah, but I'd rather wait for the doctors."  
  
"I'll do that."  
  
Carter looked away, hesitant, but Gillian took his chin with her hand and forced him to look at her.  
  
"Tell you what. I'll wake you up when I get to the hotel. We can have dinner together while I brief you over what they say. How does that sound?"  
  
Carter had to admit defeat.  
  
"It sounds good," he sighed.  
  
"See? I always have bright ideas."  
  
Carter smiled, and shook his head.  
  
"What? Are you doubting my judgement?"  
  
Carter hurried to lift up his hands and wave his surrender.  
  
"Hey, I never."  
  
"Good. Apologies accepted."  
  
Gillian hoped he would rise and say goodbye, but he looked away instead. He was quiet for a while.  
  
"So, how did it go with your boss?" He asked at last.  
  
Gillian tried a reassuring wink and shrugged.  
  
"Well, you know how bosses are, don't you?"  
  
"Huh."  
  
Carter's quiet assent was more a question than a sign of sympathetic understanding. Gillian decided against telling him she had just been fired. Her time off work for travelling to Congo with Alliance de Medicines International had expired a week ago, and her boss hadn't been pleased when she had heard Gillian intended to stay in Africa until she had got her friend out of there. It was not. How had she put it now? An excuse to get two more weeks of vacation.  
  
"She gave in at last. She's still holding a grudge against me, though, but she'll find a replacement for the next weeks."  
  
Carter's face brightened up.  
  
"Are you coming to Chicago, then?"  
  
"Of course. How else will I ensure that you two good looking guys won't get stuck in Paris to pursue adventures instead of heading directly home?"  
  
Gillian had expected him to laugh at that, but instead, Carter only drew a polite smile and cast a worried look at Luka. The grief in Carter's eyes almost made her wince. Although it affected her to see Luka in an almost catatonic state, it seemed that Carter was more hurt than her. He had been able to cope perfectly with Luka's physical ailments, but whenever he entered the hospital room now he seemed totally lost, frightened and bewildered.  
  
Gillian took Carter's hand and made him stand up.  
  
"Off you go, then," she said, shooing him out of the room.  
  
She waited by the door while he walked down the corridor and disappeared past the nurse's station. She waved to him when he looked back just before he headed for the stairs. Then she came into the room and closed the door with a sigh.  
  
She took the plastic chair Carter had sat on and carried it to the other side of the bed. She put it down in a place where she would be in Luka's visual field, but she didn't sit down right away. Instead, she came close to him and placed a kiss on his cheek. Luka's eyes gazed listlessly into emptiness from underneath half-closed eyelids.  
  
"Do you really want to know what happened with my boss, little giraffe?" She asked him.  
  
She had started calling him stupid names since the day they had found him in the refugee camp. It had seemed to soothe him whenever he had been lost in pain or in a fit of fever, and she had kept doing so even though he didn't react to them anymore. Carter couldn't understand a word she said anyway, and it helped to soothe her. The hospital staff could gossip and make as much fun of her as they pleased.  
  
"She kicked me out. Or rather," she continued with a sense of pride. "I kicked her out. I told her to stick her job up there where the sun doesn't shine. What do you think, huh? She thought you were not a good excuse for neglecting my job. Unbelievable, isn't it?"  
  
She traced one of Luka's eyebrows with her finger.  
  
"I think it's rather the other way round."  
  
She made a pause and then she wiped back some strands of his hair.  
  
"So I'll get to see your famous Chicago, big mammoth. I wonder if it can compete with Montreal."  
  
She fell silent again, trying to remember what Chicago meant to Luka. He hadn't said much. Maybe only the customary things. Good place to work in. Big city. Modern. Cold. Impersonal. Or hadn't he said a thing about Chicago and was she just making the whole thing up? She didn't know anymore. They had had so little time to talk.  
  
With a sigh, she reached out for her handbag and took out her walkman while she sat down. She put on the earphones and hit the play button. Luka's feeble, hoarse voice, coming between ragged breaths blasted in the earphones. She adjusted the volume. After having listened to his ravings for over three days she had been desperate to know, to understand what the source of his fears and obsessions was. So she had gone to the black market, bought a tape recorder and taped him.  
  
Now she played the tapes over and over, trying to learn the sounds, to separate word from word, to distinguish something in the indefinite mass of utterances. She had only recognised a few things. A few words resembled French or English, and she had also identified two names: Marco, Daniella. To listen to the tapes was a frustrating task, but now the husky sound of Luka's voice and the soft, explosive, consonant sounds of his mother tongue had also become part of her long waits at the hospital, and a way of fighting the oppressive silence.  
  
Gillian wondered who was craziest: Carter or her. His obsession to rescue Luka and his constant struggle with bureaucracy sounded insane, taking into account that he and Luka had never been close friends. They had, in fact, been more like rivals back in Chicago, or so she had understood. But taping Luka's ravings and resigning her job to ensure he got back safely to Chicago was even more demented, if one considered that what she and Luka had had in the past had been little more than an affair. She wiped her eyes tiredly and then she held Luka's hand and gazed into his eyes.  
  
"I wonder what 'Otac' is. Won't you tell me, wicked shark? Huh?" 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I forgot the disclaimer on Chapter 2. But yes, I don't own any of them.  
  
* * * *  
  
The chilly air stung Carter as if with a thousand needles. After having gotten used to the sweltering temperatures in the Congo, and wearing only a thin jacket over his short-sleeved shirt, the first taste of Brussels's November weather on the tarmac felt like a head-on encounter with an iceberg.  
  
He cast a glance at Luka, who was only covered by a pair of thin airplane blankets and a sheet marked with the "Property of Kinshasa General Hospital" stamp. Gillian was standing beside the gurney, with only a t- shirt on. Her teeth were already chattering. They'd better hurry over to the ambulance. Within the vehicle they would, at least, be sheltered from the sharp wind. With quiet efficiency, the two paramedics lifted Luka's gurney into the ambulance while Gillian briefed them about the patient. She and one of the two men climbed on the back and Carter attempted to join them. The other paramedic held him by the shoulder and said something to him.  
  
"What?"  
  
The guy repeated his statement, but whatever he said it was lost to Carter since it was in French. With a movement that had already become a natural reflex for him, he looked at Gillian. She screamed something, but her words were drowned out by the roaring of the turbines of the airplane. The paramedic that had climbed to the back had already closed one of the ambulance doors.  
  
"What?" The paramedic that stood beside him grabbed him by the arm and pointed frantically to the front of the ambulance, while he screamed the few words of English he knew.  
  
"You come up with me!"  
  
Carter nodded and got to the front of the ambulance, feeling relieved that he was out of the roaring wind. The paramedic closed the door for him, went round the ambulance and climbed into the driver's seat. He hurried to turn on the air conditioning and put it to the maximum when he noticed Carter was trembling.  
  
Carter turned around and tried to see what was going on with Gillian and Luka while the paramedic started the ambulance and began the short drive to the terminal building.  
  
"How are you doing back there?"  
  
"We're fine, Carter."  
  
A hand placed on his shoulder made him turn around.  
  
"Seat belt, please."  
  
Carter fastened his seat belt and then tried a question.  
  
"Where are you taking us, then? The infirmary?"  
  
The paramedic nodded. Carter rubbed his eyes with a hand. Good. He and Gillian could leave Luka at the care of the two paramedics and then they would set off to the Red Cross office, in the airport. Debbie had arranged an appointment with one of the Red Cross officials in charge of air transport.  
  
Debbie had been an angel. After endless faxes and days spent talking on the phone, she had managed to arrange their flight to Brussels. She hadn't been able to find a flight to Chicago, but had recommended them to another Red Cross official, and had assured them Jeanne Rebeyrol would find transportation for them.  
  
Who knew? Maybe while Mrs. Rebeyrol arranged their flight, he and Gillian could go shopping in the airport. They both needed warm jackets, and they would also have to buy a comforter for Luka. The weather in Chicago at that time of the year was even colder than in Brussels, and they couldn't risk Luka catching pneumonia or something like that.  
  
Carter smiled when he pictured himself and Gillian having hot chocolate in one of the airport cafeterias. Hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream on top of it. and a pastry. He would definitely have a Danish.  
  
Carter sighed, relieved. After a constant and often seemingly hopeless battle with the bureaucracy of the Congo, of the U.S. embassy, of the immigration office in Chicago, of County General, of the International Red Cross, it seemed he was having some success in getting Luka back home. It didn't matter what Kerry had said over the phone about Chicago not being Luka's home and Carter having to contact Luka's family in Croatia instead. Carter knew that, by then, Chicago was Luka's home as much as it was his own.  
  
Or at least, that had been what he had kept on repeating to himself the whole time. In fact, Kerry's opinion had sunk in deep within him and had made him wonder whether he was doing the right thing. But as much as he had tried to figure out what would be best for Luka, he hadn't come with a better solution. He couldn't just stay in Kinshasa waiting for Luka to regain consciousness. That could take months, even years. And the task of getting Luka out of a foreign country like the Congo had been almost overwhelming. Carter couldn't even imagine what would take him to fly him to Croatia, instead of Chicago. If there was a country even more foreign to him than the Congo, then it was Croatia.  
  
Carter didn't have the slightest idea as of the state of the medical system in Croatia at the time, or what would it take to get Luka admitted into a hospital there, or who would take care of him once he and Gillian went back to America.  
  
True, in the sexual harassment seminar Luka had said he and his father were close to each other, but who could assure Carter that Luka's father was not too old or too burdened to take care of him? Luka had also talked about a brother, but Carter guessed Luka's family in Croatia was not too well off. With what means would they provide for Luka's care?  
  
In Chicago, instead, Carter knew Luka would have a bed at County straightaway and then, when he had recovered enough to get out of the hospital, Carter would see that he got home care as long as he needed it. He had also been considering the names of several psychiatrists that could treat him, so taking Luka to Chicago really seemed to be the best option. Once in Chicago, Carter thought, he would try to phone Luka's family. And yet, Kerry's voice still plagued him in the back of his mind.  
  
Carter shook his head, annoyed. He had to focus on more immediate matters, like getting Luka to the infirmary, giving instructions to the paramedics, getting to his appointment with Jeanne Rebeyrol on time - otherwise he would drive himself mad.  
  
The ambulance stopped and the paramedic and Carter got out of it. Carter helped push the gurney through the sliding doors of the airport terminal, while Gillian held Luka's IV bag. It was warm within the terminal, but still, compared to the high temperatures in Kinshasa, it seemed chilly. There was a group of men at the end of the corridor. Two of them were police officers in uniform. The other two were dressed with dark suits, with plastic ID cards hanging from the lapels of their jackets. Carter guessed they were immigration officers.  
  
"Passports, please," said one of them.  
  
Carter took his out from his pocket while Gillian rummaged a little in her handbag. She handed the officers her passport and a bunch of documents from the American embassy, covered with multiple official Congolese stamps and seals.  
  
The officer had a brief look at both Gillian's and Carter's passport, and then he asked where Luka's passport was. Although Carter didn't understand the actual question, he deduced it from the word "passeport" and the man's nodding gesture towards Luka. Gillian began a long explanation. Knowing the whole story, Carter could more or less follow her argument. The words "Alliance de Medicines International", "Mai-Mai", "Matenda", "Kinshasa", "Croatie", "Chicago", served as landmarks.  
  
In the meantime, the officer went through the documents. When Gillian was finished, the two officials talked to each other for a while. At the end the one that held their documents said something to Gillian. His words were curt, impersonal. Gillian seemed annoyed. She started arguing with the man. Carter wanted to ask Gillian what was going on, but he had a vague intuition about what it could be, and he didn't like it. He thought it best to let Gillian handle things by herself, instead of making her translate for him. When Gillian was finished, the man shook his head, and replied in the same official manner.  
  
"What is he saying, Gillian?" Carter couldn't help himself any more.  
  
"He says Luka's documents do not allow him to go in transit through Brussels. We'll have to wait in a police office until they can check his ID. They also want to verify our story. He'll contact the Alliance de Medicines International to check out our contracts, and the Red Cross officials to ensure we have a flight to Chicago," Gillian said with a despondent sigh.  
  
Carter gaped at Gillian, then at the immigration officers. This was outrageous.  
  
"Tell him that Luka is very ill, that he can't be held in an office, that we need the paramedics here to help us with medical supplies."  
  
"I've told him that already."  
  
"Tell him again."  
  
Gillian translated for Carter. The officer shook his head.  
  
"He says he's very sorry, but we should have thought about this before we traveled."  
  
"What?!" cried Carter. A wave of anger washed over him. He felt the irrational impulse to hit the man, and it took all his force of will to fight it back. He clenched his fists until he felt his own nails digging into his palms.  
  
"Look," he began when he had finally mastered his outrage. "Tell him we have an appointment with Mrs. Jeanne Rebeyrol of the International Red Cross in." he glanced at the watch he had bought in Kinshasa. "In fifteen minutes. He can escort us to her office, here at the airport. Then he'll be able to check on our story and make sure we get a flight to Chicago. In the meantime, the paramedics can take care of Luka. It's not likely he will get anywhere by himself."  
  
He saw how Gillian shrank away at the sarcasm of his last words, but he was too annoyed to take that into account. She translated for him and she listened patiently to what the officer had to say. Then she replied in a firmer tone. The man said something to her, scorn reflecting in his eyes. Gillian's eyes burned with indignation and she said something. Her voice went up two or three degrees in intensity. The officer just crossed his arms across his chest.  
  
Then one of the paramedics intervened. He made quite a lengthy speech, accompanied by ample gestures. The other officer replied to the paramedic, and the four of them were soon engaged in a heated argument while the police officers and Carter watched them. Suddenly the first paramedic grabbed the gurney and pushed it forward. The officers and policemen blocked him the way. They struggled while they yelled at each other.  
  
"Hey, Hey!" Screamed Carter, coming in between them. "Stop! Stop it!"  
  
His intervention was surprising enough to shut them all up. They stared at him, and then the paramedic started talking to Carter.  
  
"Hey, hey, hey." said Carter trying to appease him. "Slow down, I know you want to help, but I don't understand a word you're saying."  
  
The paramedic looked at Gillian and she translated. The paramedic talked more slowly this time.  
  
"He says these people have no idea of what Luka needs, that they don't use their brains and that he's taking Luka to the infirmary, that he doesn't mind if."  
  
Whatever the paramedic said, pissed the officers off. They started arguing again. Gillian rubbed her forehead tiredly and exchanged a helpless glance with Carter. If they didn't stop this argument, the good faith of the paramedic would only get them into more trouble. Carter had coped with enough bureaucrats during the last couple of weeks to understand their logic, or rather, their lack of logic, and he knew that whatever they said, none of them would get out of the restricted area. Carter decided to step in once again.  
  
"Stop it!" He shouted at the top of his lungs.  
  
Luckily, those words seemed to be international. He held up his hands to ensure they would let him speak.  
  
"Okay, okay," he said, addressing the officers. "I understand. We're willing to cooperate with you. We'll wait until you have checked everything out."  
  
Gillian stared at him, but after a second translated his words. They had become so accustomed to communicating and discussing with other people in this way that they had developed a certain sixth sense of how to work together to carry out their argument in the best way. By then, she sensed that Carter, somehow, had a point. When Gillian finished translating Carter's words, the paramedic gawked at him in astonishment. He started shaking his head and saying something Carter interpreted correctly as: "You're out of your mind, man". Carter held up an admonishing finger to quiet him.  
  
"But we need your help, please."  
  
The man looked at him fixedly. He had understood.  
  
"Comment?"  
  
"We need medical supplies."  
  
Gillian translated and the man nodded.  
  
"Mais bien sûr."  
  
Carter smiled. He had understood that.  
  
"And we'd need you to get to our appointment in our place. Will you do that?"  
  
The man nodded again after Gillian had spoken. Carter smiled.  
  
"Merci," he said, and smiled when he caught the paramedic's amused expression. He knew he usually butchered the French words, just like most of the Frenchmen deformed their English.  
  
One of the officers started speaking again, in their characteristic impersonal mode, and the policemen led them into an empty office, further down the hall. It was furnished with a table and four plastic chairs. A huge mirror covered one of the walls. It was not difficult to guess it was a surveyed room. One of the policemen stayed in the room while the officers left.  
  
The paramedics put Luka's gurney in a corner and Carter checked his vitals while Gillian hung the IV bag from a hook on the wall. She glanced at her watch.  
  
"It's already half past four, Carter. Have you got Jeanne Rebeyrol's office number?" she asked.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Carter searched his pockets and handed her a piece of paper. They were already five minutes late for their appointment. Gillian asked one of the officers for a phone but the man shook his head. Carter tried to keep his head cool while he prayed Gillian would do that too. What were these men thinking? That they could simply disconnect them from the outside world?  
  
Then, their kind paramedic took the piece of paper from her hands, saying something. He was evidently offering to make the phone call. Carter sighed in relief. At least that was going to be taken care of. He mouthed another "Merci" to the man as he left. He regretted not having asked him his name.  
  
Gillian came close to Carter, and they both started to take care of Luka. The other paramedic handed them what he had in his kit, and then Gillian went over the medicines they would need if they were going to stay for some hours in that office. They also needed jelly or something light for Luka to eat, and blankets. Carter was a bit concerned. Luka was trembling slightly. Probably he was only feeling cold, like he and Gillian were. He took off his jacket and draped it across Luka's shoulders.   
  
They were halfway through their list when one of the officers came into the office again, with some official forms in his hands. He sat by the table, but was polite enough to wait until they finished and the other paramedic was off to get them the supplies. Then he addressed them.  
  
Gillian sighed in exasperation.  
  
"He wants to ask us some questions."  
  
"Yeah, I kind of managed to figure that out," commented Carter. "It somehow fits the bureaucratic logic."  
  
Gillian flashed him a smile of complicity. The officer watched them sternly and then motioned them to sit with a gesture as he started speaking in an almost flawless English.  
  
"Please, sit down. This may take a while."  
  
Gillian and Carter froze for a moment, and the officer watched them, savoring their bewilderment. They sat down.   
  
After forty-five minutes, they had gone through their whole story. They had quickly passed over the customary questions about their identity, their occupation and the reasons why they had been in Africa. It had taken longer to tell the story as of how they had found Luka. The deeper they got into it, the most mistrustful the officer seemed. He repeated some of his questions, made one shut up while the other answered, and went over trivial details several times. Carter started to feel an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. He somehow felt that the mistrust of this officer was as deep as the one of the Congo police. He cringed when he heard the next question.  
  
"So, Mr. Carter. It seems you really have gone to great lengths to take care of Mr. Kovac here. What is your relationship to him?"  
  
Carter looked down at the table. It was the fourth time he answered that question. The interrogation had already been unusually long and Carter had started to wonder if the paramedic was not being held outside with the supplies. He glanced at his watch and considered his options. It wouldn't be of much help if he answered truthfully again that Luka and him were colleagues and friends. Evidently, the fact that somebody would fly back to a war torn country and risk his life to retrieve the body of an acquaintance from the hands of rebels didn't fit bureaucratic logic. He'd have to think of a more forceful argument. And then it came as a flash to him. He looked up and stared directly into the man's eyes.  
  
"We're lovers," he said.  
  
He felt how Gillian tensed beside him and prayed she would keep up a front for him. He then started to wonder if he hadn't gone nuts. Such a lie would get them into even more trouble than what they were into. The officer looked at him for a second.  
  
"Then why did you tell me you were friends?"  
  
"It's part of my private life. And you're here to confirm our identities and to establish whether we can travel further on, not to find out about my personal relationships."  
  
Interestingly enough, that seemed to cut the man off a bit.  
  
"Only if your personal relationships are relevant to my inquiry," he replied after a while, but his tone had become more polite.  
  
Carter almost smiled to himself. Homosexual issues did have a weight here in Europe, as they had in the States. Well, maybe he was not completely whacko and his little story would help them out after all.  
  
"Well, now you know about it."  
  
"Yes, now I do."  
  
The officer tapped on his form with the tip of his pen.  
  
"Well, I think this would be all for now. Thank you for your patience."  
  
Carter was surprised when the man gathered his papers, stood up and held out his hand. He shook it without further comments. He couldn't believe he had got to say the last word.  
  
Fortunately, Gillian seemed to be less astonished than him and able to inquire after their medical supplies.  
  
"Would you please check out if the paramedic is back?"  
  
"Yes, Miss. I will."  
  
"Thank you very much."  
  
The man left, and Gillian glanced at Carter with a look of amusement. Carter couldn't wink to her because he was facing the mirror. He just rubbed his forehead with his hand, and after a brief moment he stood up and went to check on Luka.   
  
* * * *  
  
Gillian smiled as she stirred the coffee in her cup. She was sitting on one of those uncomfortable high chairs typical of airport cafés, dangerously balancing her handbag on her knee while trying to prevent the various shopping bags from turning over with the tip of her shoe. It was early evening and she already felt a little guilty for being there, enjoying coffee and a cigarette while Carter and Luka were still in that damned detention office. But still, she felt she deserved at least five minutes for herself.  
  
She could make believe she was just one more traveler stopping over in Brussels on her way home after. after what? After a short vacation in Europe? No, not at this time of the year. After attending a medical convention? Yeah, that was more likely. Okay. It had been a long, boring, medical convention and she was now heading back to Montreal where she would enjoy a couple of days off before she started work again. She would unpack, wash her clothes, visit her mother and probably go to the movies. She'd maybe contact a couple of friends and go to a bar or a disco. She started to think about which friends she'd call when she noticed a man staring at her from one of the other tables.  
  
She had been smiling to herself while she daydreamed, thus making herself the object of his attention. She cringed when she thought he probably would take their momentary eye contact as a cue to approach her and start a conversation. But the man averted his gaze and looked through the huge airport windows instead.  
  
She sighed in relief and reached for one of her shopping bags. She put it on the counter and started rooting through its contents. The first things she saw were "The New York Times" and "Newsweek". She had no idea as of what Carter liked to read, so she had just bought the most commonplace publications she could think of. Then her hand bumped into the book she had bought for herself, a French translation of a collection of short stories by Italo Calvino. She recalled having read something by Calvino a long time ago, and she had liked the description on the cover of the book. Tiny love stories between strangers seemed like an interesting thing to read during their long wait at the detention office and during the flight to Chicago. But that was not what she was looking for.  
  
In the bottom of the bag lay a smaller box, tightly wrapped in plastic. She retrieved it and looked at the cover before she started unwrapping it. A French-Croatian phrasebook. It was one of those silly manuals for tourists who wanted to spend a week in a foreign country. It wasn't quite the thing she needed, but it was a start. It had a tape and a pronunciation key, so she hoped she would be able to recognize at least a few words from Luka's tapes. She glanced into the pages, and almost let out a grin. Now, seriously, how possible was it that Luka had asked for some more red wine in his ravings? Or how about: "How much does a taxi fare cost to the airport?" She couldn't help shaking her head.  
  
What she had wanted to buy was a good Croatian-French dictionary, together with a Croatian grammar for foreigners, but it was more than what the little bookshop at the airport could offer. Fortunately, it had been part of a large chain, and the clerk had been making some phone calls to other bookstores until he located the dictionary and the grammar for her. She had begged so much he had ended up assuring her he would have them there for her first thing in the morning. She had, however, paid for them in advance, to make sure he'd keep his word and she had not resisted the temptation to get the phrase book. She had thought she could listen to the tape that night, instead of listening to Luka's ravings. But taking into account the kind of phrases that stood in the book, it seemed a stupid move.  
  
She shrugged. Well, she could probably share that with Carter so they could have a laugh about it. The minute she came across the thought, she dismissed it. He'd think she had gone crazy. Besides, trying to understand Luka's ravings was not too ethical. But how about declaring that Luka and he were a couple? Gillian shook her head once again as she remembered Carter's confidence when he had said it. His sudden statement had really pulled the rug from underneath her feet. Fortunately, it had also pulled the rug from underneath the officer's feet, and it had stopped the interrogation.  
  
The paramedic had been allowed into the office and they had been able to wrap Luka in warm blankets, give him his pain medication and change his catheter bag. He'd been much more comfortable afterwards. They had even been able to make him drink a bit of orange juice.  
  
Twenty minutes later, Philippe Chrétien, their kind paramedic, as Carter called him, had arrived with Jeanne Rebeyrol and the two immigration officers. Jeanne had helped to clear up the situation, and had assured them that there was a flight for the three of them the next day. The officers had also checked out Carter's and Gillian's identities, so they told them they were free to go. But they hadn't given in when they had asked them to let them get Luka to the infirmary. They meant he still didn't have any right to go on transit, so he couldn't allow him to get past immigration. They had, nevertheless, been much more polite than before.  
  
Philippe had also been very kind, and had assured them he'd help them to watch over Luka that night, so Carter and Gillian could have some sleep. He had told them he would pass by when his shift was over to take a watch over Luka. He had also said he'd book two rooms for them at one of the airport hotels and had escorted Gillian to the airport lounge.  
  
Carter had insisted she should be the one to go shopping, and wouldn't hear a word about her staying in the office instead, so Gillian had left with a long list of items she had to buy. She had enjoyed buying sweaters and jackets for herself and Carter and a comforter for Luka. She'd also picked up a couple of sandwiches, juice, some snacks, water and Jell-o for all of them -well, of course the juice and jell-o were for Luka. She was pleased with her errands. She had managed to find Luka's favorite Jell-o, and when she got back she would have a laugh with her stupid little phrasebook while Carter hopefully would enjoy reading the newspapers.  
  
Gillian drank the last sip of her coffee. She had to run the last errand before she headed back. She ordered a large cup of chocolate with lots of whipped cream and the most mouth-watering Danish on the counter to go. She paid for them, slung her handbag over her shoulder, gathered all her shopping bags and, carefully holding the paper cup on her free hand, headed back to the detention office.  
  
She managed to open the door with the hand with which she held most of the plastic bags. She had roamed about a little and had at last found one of the immigration officers that had questioned them earlier. The man showed her the way back, but he hadn't been gallant enough so as to help her with her bags. She pushed the door with her back, and started talking when she came in.  
  
"I'm sorry - your chocolate must be a little cold already, Carter. This airport is bigger than what I had thought. I got kind of lost, you know."  
  
She put the cup and the plastic bags down on the table.  
  
"Your Danish must be here somewhere." she added, looking into the plastic shopping bags. "I put it into one of these."  
  
"Gillian?" There was something in Carter's voice that made her look up straightaway.  
  
He was sitting in one of the plastic chairs by the gurney. There was a bright smile on his face.  
  
"Guess who's woken up."  
  
Gillian's eyes wandered to Luka. He was watching her from under half closed eyelids, but he was looking directly at her, his eyes focused, not dimmed by the thick haze that had covered them in the past weeks. And he was smiling. A slight, rather timid smile raised the corners of his mouth up. As if in a dream, Gillian saw Luka's hand rise from the blanket, turn up and open in a friendly gesture.  
  
"Gillian?" His husky voice, now reduced to a harsh whisper, reached her, and suddenly his image got blurred.  
  
Gillian had to wipe the tears off her cheeks before she approached them.   
  
* * * * 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: No, I don't own any of them.  
  
Author's notes: Well, I managed to update this one a little bit earlier. Hope you enjoy it.  
  
Reviews are welcome!!!!  
  
* * * *  
  
There were muffled sounds in the background, constant and disturbing noises. Luka tightened his eyes shut to keep them out, but they somehow crept inside him. Voices, several voices rose and lowered down and rose again. He couldn't distinguish the words, couldn't recognise the language. They were jabbering, rattling on, suddenly speaking up in an argument. In an argument? Wait. Wasn't that Carter's voice? Suddenly, Luka found himself struggling to free himself from the cobwebs that enveloped his mind.  
  
Carter was getting into trouble again. Was he discussing with the rebels? With the government forces? He had to help, do something about it. He opened his eyes and tried to focus, to pierce the white haze that seemed to cover everything around him. He was lying on his back. Why was he so tired? He rose on one elbow while calling out Carter's name, and regretted it immediately. He arched back on the mattress as a round of searing pain pierced through his belly. A hand came immediately into his and another one covered his forehead.  
  
"Luka! Luka?"  
  
Luka opened his eyes and met Carter's worried look. There was something really strange in his expression, a mixture of wonder, awe and fear.  
  
"Jesus, Luka, you're awake!"  
  
That was the most peculiar statement Luka had ever heard. Of course he was awake. What he didn't understand was why he was in so much pain, so tired and so cold. He grimaced, fighting back another round of pain radiating from his belly into his legs and through his back. The doctor in Carter took over. Luka was starting to hyperventilate.  
  
"Hey, Luka, look at me," he squeezed Luka's hand and succeeded in making him focus on his face. "Take it slow. Take a deep breath with me and hold it."  
  
Luka clung to Carter's hand and tried to go through the familiar exercise while he managed to figure out that he had to be incredibly ill if Carter was talking to him in this professional tone.  
  
"Good. Another one."  
  
Luka followed, thankful for Carter's thorough medical training at County. A few breaths later, Carter found it safe enough to ask.  
  
"How much pain?"  
  
"Twelve," answered Luka and tried to smile. Mistake. The pain was really crossing the boundaries of his tolerance, so his smile turned into a grimace. Carter's eyes grew a shadow darker.  
  
"No. no." mumbled Luka, trying to reassure the younger doctor. "It's only about ten."  
  
His second joke failed as well. Carter frowned.  
  
"We gave you something for pain just an hour ago."  
  
Carter was thinking out loud, but Luka was not going to be the one who told him that. He'd find out more about his condition if he just listened than if he made direct questions. He didn't want to get the mild condescension all of them oozed when having to deal with seriously injured patients and according to what he was feeling like, it seemed to be the case with him.  
  
Luka felt a hollow sensation deep inside when he realised he couldn't remember what had happened to him at all. Why was Carter there? Luka's last memory of him was of their farewell in Matenda. But that had been a while ago, hadn't it? And what about the vivid memory of waking up in a Red Cross hospital? But that had been Vukovar, at least ten years before Matenda. But then.  
  
"Luka? Are you listening to me?" Carter's hand was squeezing his. He was alarmed at the lost, bewildered look Luka gave him.  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
Carter sighed. There was no easy way to explain that one, but Luka really needed a straight and simple answer. The longer it took him to answer, the more panicked Luka seemed.  
  
"We're on our way to Chicago. You were reported dead in Kisangani. I flew back to the Congo to get your body, and found you in a refugee camp. You had malaria and had been run down by a truck. You have fractured your pelvis, your hip and your left leg, and."  
  
Probably that was too much information in one go. Luka seemed shocked.  
  
"Luka, are you listening to me?"  
  
"When was that?" Luka's voice came out in a harsh whisper.  
  
"We found you about three weeks ago."  
  
Luka's eyes went wild. His breath became shallow again, and his face went a couple of shades paler.  
  
"Hey, hey, slow down, Luka. Look at me," Carter squeezed Luka's hand again. "Breathe with me."  
  
Fortunately, Luka followed him in the breathing exercise, and though his eyes were still wide with anxiety after a while, his breath was deep and under control. Carter tried some more talking.  
  
"Things got pretty nasty at some point, you know," he tried a light-hearted tone on Luka, not wanting to swamp him under a load of medical detail. "But we managed to control both the malaria and the infection, and we've set all your bones in place."  
  
"I can't remember anything." Replied Luka, in a dazed whisper.  
  
He looked away into emptiness, and Carter was afraid he would loose him again. He touched Luka's cheek.  
  
"Hey, hey. Stay with me."  
  
Luka looked at him.  
  
"Three weeks."  
  
"It's all right, Luka. It's just normal," Carter tried to reassure him, though he knew that what Luka had just been through was everything BUT normal.  
  
He'd have to find something else to make Luka concentrate upon. Trivial, reassuring things.  
  
"I'll give you a round of Meperidine," he said rummaging in the bag of medical supplies. "Things will be clearer when you're not in pain anymore."  
  
Maybe a bit of teasing would do: "Take it from me. I know what I'm talking about. Though it can involve some risks. You may end up with Kerry and Romano sending you in an airplane to a recovery clinic in Atlanta."  
  
Luka's weak smile assured him that he had caught his lame joke. He was only smiling out of politeness, but he was listening to him.  
  
"Are you cold?" He asked as he injected the painkiller into Luka's IV.  
  
Luka nodded.  
  
"That's probably only that you have to accustom yourself to not being in the tropics anymore. I'm freezing myself," he said with a wink he hoped was not too artificial. "But I'll take your temp and your blood pressure just to be on the safe side, OK?"  
  
Luka nodded again and looked at Carter while he measured his vitals and continued rattling on. He couldn't get over the fact he had missed three weeks of his life. Three weeks! He had completely lost himself. Those weeks were but a void in his mind. He couldn't possibly have been raving the whole time. Had it been a reaction to some of the meds he had got? Or was it. Luka stopped on the brink of the thought, not daring to go any further.  
  
He had suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder since the war. He had experienced bouts of insomnia, nightmares and flashbacks in which the real world seemed to disappear for a moment and got replaced by memories so vivid he could sense the sounds and smells as if things were happening all over again. But those had only lasted a few minutes at a time, not days on end. And he'd never drastically confused the past and the present. not when being awake, and the memory of waking in the Red Cross hospital was too vivid for it to be a dream.  
  
"Luka? Are you listening to me?"  
  
Carter's eyes were worried, and that only scared Luka even more. He felt a cold wave wash over him.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"I asked you if you wanted something to eat."  
  
Luka shook his head.  
  
"Are you nauseated?"  
  
Carter was getting to the end of immediate things he could talk about, and he seemed to be losing Luka again. He should be relaxing with the painkiller by now, but his looks were more anxious than sleepy.  
  
"No."  
  
"Thisty?"  
  
Luka closed his eyes for a second. Perhaps if he acquiesced to one of Carter's requests he'd stop fussing over him like a mother hen. It was more than he could cope with at the moment. He was having enough trouble trying to maintain control and not give way to panic.  
  
He nodded.  
  
Carter went away for a second. Luka's eyes followed him, and when they brushed over the room he caught sight of the two men in dark suits sitting by the table. They were staring at him with the morbid fascination he had seen on the eyes of war journalists both in the Congo and during the war back home. He hated that stare. Carter came back with a bottle of water and a straw. He noticed Luka had his sight fixed on the two men.  
  
"Who are these?"  
  
Luka's question came out in an almost savage whisper. Carter knew Luka had never been fond of functionaries but the anger in his tone caught him off guard.  
  
"Uh. eh. they are Belgian immigration officers."  
  
The irritation on Luka's face changed to bewilderment.  
  
"Belgian?"  
  
"Yeah. We're in Brussels."  
  
"Brussels?"  
  
Carter smiled and was about to ask Luka if he'd suddenly turned into an echo, but he chose not to. Luka seemed confused enough already. He didn't need banter just then. But it was good to see the wild and horrified look had disappeared from his eyes.  
  
"We had to land somewhere on our way to Chicago, you know," he explained. "Our flight will be leaving tomorrow at 10:00 am. And your passport got lost in the Congo. It has been quite a task to get you some kind of ID. The authorities here wouldn't let us past immigration, so we're just detained in some office."  
  
Carter stopped short. He hadn't been able to keep the crankiness out of his voice, but he wondered if Luka needed to know that just then. Luka cast another irritated look at the pair of officers, and Carter decided his explanation hadn't been that bad. Luka's annoyance was better than his fright and his bewilderment.  
  
As if they had taken that as cue, the officers rose and excused themselves. They went out of the office and quietly closed the door behind them. Carter offered the water to Luka and held the straw to his lips. Luka had a few sips.  
  
"Thanks," he whispered and closed his eyes.  
  
"Tired?"  
  
Luka nodded.  
  
"Get some sleep. I'll wake you up when Gillian comes back."  
  
Luka's eyes flew open.  
  
"Gillian?"  
  
Carter smiled and nodded.  
  
"She's coming with us to Chicago."  
  
Luka's forehead creased in incomprehension.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well, you're too much to handle by myself."  
  
Luka didn't reply. He seemed absentminded once again. Carter squeezed his hand.  
  
"Hey."  
  
When Luka looked up to him his eyes were not confused or frightened.  
  
"Why are you doing this?"  
  
Luka's question caught him unawares. It had been the same one he'd been asked over and over again during his journey to the Congo and back, but he honestly hadn't thought about it that much. He didn't know. He'd just followed an impulse and then he'd carried on. After a while, he managed a smile.  
  
"Well, you know I've always been crazy about you."  
  
Luka gave out a small chuckle, and winced. Laughing was probably not such a good idea. There was another silence.  
  
"And Gillian?"  
  
Carter shrugged and pushed a stool to the side of Luka's gurney. He sat where Luka could look at him.  
  
"I don't know," he confessed. "But it's not a big deal, really. You know, Chicago is kind of on the way to Montreal."  
  
Luka wasn't convinced by his poor explanation.  
  
"Why don't you ask her when she comes back, if you're up to it?"  
  
Luka closed his eyes and nodded slightly. He took a deep breath. The Meperidine was taking hold of him. And then the knob on the door turned and the door opened to reveal a hurried scurried Gillian loaded with a lot of shopping bags.  
  
Luka held his breath. As if in slow motion, he saw her put her bags and a paper cup down on the table, rummage around in them, look up. Time stood still when her eyes met his. He tried to smile, to lift his hand towards her. He saw what the sight of him did to her. Her body tensed and recoiled as if she had been shot. She stood there, shocked, and then, without warning, tears started rolling down her cheeks. An expression of sheer pity appeared in her face.  
  
Luka felt the tears prick at his eyes, humiliated and overwhelmed by her sorrow. He covered his face with his hand, unable to wrap his mind around what he was feeling and too ashamed to let her see. When she touched him, he flinched. She gently lifted his hand from his face, and held it between both of his. Luka swallowed hard, trying to get some kind of hold of himself, but he completely lost it when she caressed his cheek and started uttering reassuring noises. Suddenly, it hit him. The Red Cross hospital, the familiar face. it had been her. He sobbed.  
  
Carter watched them, surprised by the fierce storm of emotions that had broken out between them. He carefully stood up from his chair, picked the paper cup from the table and slunk out of the room. He drank his chocolate on the corridor, pacing up and down and badly wishing for a cigarette. After a while, when he felt it was safe, he came into the office again. Luka was sound asleep. Gillian was sitting by his side, gently caressing one of his eyebrows.  
  
Luka drifted to consciousness some hours later. His body was stiff and sore. His back ached, the muscles on his neck and shoulders were taut as bowstrings. And he didn't feel well. He couldn't really pinpoint what it was. It seemed like a mixture of pain, nausea and chill. He shifted a bit and gave out a quiet groan. Immediately, Carter shook himself from a light doze.  
  
"Hey," he said, as he gave Luka a sleepy look.  
  
"Sorry," muttered Luka.  
  
"It's all right. These chairs aren't the most comfortable place to sleep, anyway," answered Carter as quietly, casting a look at Gillian, who was dozing off by the table, her head resting on her crossed arms.  
  
Carter rubbed his eyes and had a look at his watch. It was one thirty. Chrétien had passed by a couple of hours before, when he was done with his shift, but both Gillian and Carter had insisted on staying instead of having some sleep at the hotel. They were really not comfortable with the idea of Luka waking up among strangers during the first night he spent back in the real world.  
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
Luka gave Carter an uncertain look.  
  
"I. I don't know."  
  
"Are you in pain?"  
  
"No. not really."  
  
"Nauseated?"  
  
"Kind of."  
  
Carter touched Luka's forehead. It was damp and clammy, and somewhat warm.  
  
"I'll check your temp."  
  
He put the thermometer into Luka's ear. Luka saw him frown as he read the temperature.  
  
"How much?" He asked.  
  
"100.4"  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
Carter shook his head. Luka could have caught a cold from the change of temperature, or he could be having another bout of malaria, or was probably developing another infection. the two last options were the worst. He decided to stick to the first one.  
  
"You've maybe caught a cold. It was freezing when we got you to the ambulance."  
  
"Carter? Luka? What is it?"  
  
Gillian was standing by Carter's side.  
  
"Luka's running a fever," answered Carter as he noticed how Luka's eyes darted off to the ceiling.  
  
If Luka had been unconscious, he'd just have started examining him straightaway, but with a conscious and clearly ashamed Luka he felt awkward. He just couldn't keep a medical distance.  
  
"Luka." he whispered. "We'll have to check the scar from your surgery and your pins to rule out an infection."  
  
Luka grimaced slightly and then took a deep breath.  
  
"O. K." he sighed.  
  
Carter pushed the comforter to a side and uncovered Luka's belly while Gillian started checking the pins on his leg.  
  
"Tell me if it hurts," he said, starting to sense around the catheter entrance and checking out the scar that crossed Luka's abdomen.  
  
Luka only gave out slight groans from time to time as they probed and poked and moved him around. They didn't find any swelling or particular tenderness, but the three of them knew an infection couldn't be ruled out by a manual diagnosis. They needed several blood and urine tests, and it would be impossible to get them done under the circumstances.  
  
"It must be a cold," said Luka voicing their best wish.  
  
The alarm on Carter's watch went off.  
  
"Time for your antibiotics," he commented.  
  
Luka let out a sharp breath that could probably be interpreted as a curt grin. Carter rummaged in the bag and retrieved a couple of flasks. He started mixing the antibiotics while Luka watched him, overtly avoiding Gillian's eyes.  
  
"Are you thirsty?" She asked.  
  
Luka nodded, his sight still fixed on Carter who was filling the syringe and injecting the antibiotic into the IV port.  
  
"Well, we've got quite an assortment here. What would you like?" Asked Gillian in a overly cheerful tone. Fortunately, it seemed to raise Luka's spirits.  
  
"Vodka."  
  
"No, sorry, we've run out of it."  
  
"Oh, well. I'll have rum, then."  
  
Carter chuckled. It was great to see Luka trying to make fun, although his jokes were lamer than his own.  
  
"What brand?" He asked. "Bacardi?"  
  
Luka faked a grimace of disgust.  
  
"Nah. I thought you had some knowledge of drinks, Carter. I'm disappointed."  
  
"What's wrong with Bacardi?"  
  
"It's close to antiseptic alcohol. God knows we could have used it."  
  
"In Kisangani?" was Carter's guess.  
  
Luka shook his head, suddenly still. His eyes had gone sombre.  
  
"Vukovar," whispered Gillian.  
  
Luka darted her a look. One of those scenes he had been desperately trying to forget during the past ten years had unexpectedly overtaken him. How did she know? He swallowed hard and nodded. Carter was baffled again by the wordless understanding that seemed to have sprung between them. Gillian's eyes darted off and she rummaged in one of the shopping bags.  
  
"So, what will you have? Water? Orange juice? Strawberry juice?"  
  
"Strawberry juice," said Luka and cleared his throat. "Let's see if it tastes like the good strawberries."  
  
"The GOOD strawberries?" asked Gillian.  
  
"The ones from my grandfather's backyard," added Luka with a weak smile.  
  
Gillian tried to answer to it with something more than a sad wink. How did he manage to put up a brave front? She pierced the juice box with a straw and handed it to Carter. She had noticed, with a pang, that Luka felt utterly uncomfortable with her help. Maybe he wouldn't take it so hard if she stayed away for a while. Carter held the straw to Luka's lips and watched as he took a few sips. Luka grimaced.  
  
"Ewww"  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's awful."  
  
Carter shook his head, reproachfully, while he cast a look at the box.  
  
"Really, Luka, you're too demanding. Did you expect NATURAL juice from an airport convenience store?"  
  
"Well, I didn't expect some kind of. of cough medicine."  
  
Gillian grinned.  
  
"Would you like to try the orange juice?" She asked, teasingly.  
  
Luka faked a horrified expression.  
  
"Water?"  
  
He nodded, and when she was about to pass the bottle to Carter Luka extended his hand. She took off the cap and passed it over to him, but noticed he would not be able to drink it without spilling it while he was lying flat on his back. She raised his head and helped him to drink. She took the bottle when he finished. He looked up to her, moved, and she feared he'd be getting close to the edge again.  
  
"Ewwww."  
  
It was Carter's voice.  
  
"Gee, it really tastes like cough medicine."  
  
That broke their sombre mood. Carter handed the box to Gillian.  
  
"Would you like to try?"  
  
"No, thanks."  
  
"I think you should. As a penance."  
  
"Penance for what?"  
  
"For picking it up."  
  
"Oh yeah. Is this your gratitude? Tomorrow you'll do the shopping."  
  
Luka was smiling at their bantering. Carter decided to bring him in.  
  
"Don't you think she deserves it?"  
  
Luka nodded, and Gillian lifted an admonishing finger.  
  
"Stay away from this or YOU'LL be the one to do the shopping."  
  
Luka's smile widened.  
  
"I bet I'd do it much better."  
  
Gillian would have liked to give him a soft slap on the cheek at that point, but she didn't dare. She decided to continue with the bantering, instead.  
  
"What? Are you questioning my good taste? Don't you like your comforter?"  
  
Luka had a look at it and smiled. It was a blue and white comforter, patterned with small planets, moons and stars.  
  
"Well." He started.  
  
"It was either that or the poodle pattern," Gillian interrupted. "Get used to it."  
  
"Hey, Luka. You shouldn't complain. You could have done much worse," said Carter, showing him his sweater.  
  
A huge and very foolish reindeer was staring out of the front of the garment. Luka gave out a sharp grin, and then grimaced again. His belly was giving him a hard time. But he refused to give up. He really wanted to keep up the mood, for he feared he'd plunge into the greyish purgatory that had become his world the years after the fall of Vukovar. He looked at the reindeer with a critical eye.  
  
"Come on. It's much better than the skeleton."  
  
"Oh, give me a break."  
  
"What skeleton?"  
  
Before Carter could divert the conversation, Luka had already embarked on the story of how Carter and Abby had disguised for their shift last Halloween and how Carter had been so embarrassed by being the only one dressing up that he'd changed into scrubs ten minutes after he'd come to the ER. Carter smiled weakly. He didn't feel that comfortable hearing the story from Luka's lips, especially because his teasing of Abby had verged on vulgarity, but he decided to shut up and endure being the laughing stock. Gillian's burst of laughter seemed to lift Luka's spirits a little bit more.  
  
"Well, you'd have to listen to his last effort. It really beats the skeleton thing," commented Gillian with a naughty spark in her eyes.  
  
Luka cast a look at Carter and was surprised to see he'd turned a deep shade of crimson.  
  
"What?"  
  
There was a brief silence.  
  
"Should I tell him, Carter?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh, come on."  
  
"I said no."  
  
"But Carter." Gillian's tone was that of a mock pleading.  
  
"I'LL tell him."  
  
He'd turned deadly serious and Gillian feared things would go awry between them. She had noticed Carter had patiently borne Luka telling the Halloween story and she already had guessed they had issues concerning their job and this Abby. Carter stood up and leant over Luka. He whispered something into Luka's ear. Whatever fears Gillian had, were quickly dispelled.  
  
"You did WHAT?" Asked Luka in complete disbelief, as Carter pulled back from him.  
  
Carter watched Luka with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. Luka stared at him for a few seconds, and then he burst into laughter. He had to take his hands to his belly as pain shot through him, but he just couldn't stop laughing. Tears started rolling down his cheeks. He groaned.  
  
"Oh, Carter, give me a break," he managed to grumble, as his laughter finally receded. He listened to Carter's and Gillian's laughs and his heart lightened.  
  
They spent the next few hours talking. They drifted from one topic to another in an easy manner that surprised the three of them. It was almost three a.m. when Carter gave Luka another dose of pain medication. Luka was still feverish and felt sick to his stomach, but part of the tension in his body had receded and he dozed off, feeling strangely eased and secure. The ghosts from the past and the fear of loosing himself had seemed to have given way, at least for a while. 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own any of 'em. . .  
  
Author's notes: I had promised myself I wouldn't beg for reviews. . . False promise. Please, review !!!!!!  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
There was a flash, and everything went dark. He felt a wave of heat pass through his body. "The grenade has sprung," he thought. "It hit me. I shouldn't be thinking this. I am dead." The last thought made his heart miss a beat, and he felt an emptiness in his stomach as if he had been going down a ladder and had missed the last step.  
  
* * * *  
  
He opened his eyes. There was a dim light coming through the half drawn curtains. He was in a hospital room. It was County. Luka took a deep breath, and then he was suddenly conscious of the cool towel on his forehead. He turned his head and spotted Carter.  
  
"Another nightmare?"  
  
Luka nodded and swallowed hard, fighting back the revolt in his stomach and the tightness in his throat.  
  
"I tried to wake you up," Carter shook his head. "But you're a heavy sleeper. When you finally fall asleep, that is."  
  
"I know. . . " Luka muttered. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Carter smiled sheepishly.  
  
"Want some water?" He asked in turn.  
  
Luka knew he was avoiding his question but he decided to let it be for the moment.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Water wouldn't dispel the sickness, but Luka knew he had to drink something if he eventually wanted to get rid of the IV. The catheter had been removed the day he had come to Chicago because it had been the source of another infection, and he had succeeded in convincing Carter and the other doctors he didn't need a Foley. Now he had beaten the infection with the help of antibiotics, and wasn't feverish any more, but there was something in the combination of painkillers he was being given that made him lightheaded and sick to his stomach. Although they had been trying different painkillers, he still hadn't been able to keep anything solid down for more than half an hour, and was therefore still hooked to the IV. Given the weight loss he had suffered in the Congo, he had been told, he wouldn't be discharged until he had eaten regularly for about four or five days, so he was still facing at least another week in the hospital.  
  
Luka rubbed his eyes. It was ironic, but he hated hospitals. The times he had been confined in them had always been a miserable time of his life, an emptiness tightly bound by grief, loneliness, guilt and self reproach. And this time wasn't any different. Except for the loneliness. Luka had still to decide whether being a patient in his work place, with all the fuss of his bosses and colleagues, was better or worse than being left alone with his pains among strangers. The attention he had got from people that barely knew him and felt compelled to express to him their sympathy out of some twisted sense of obligation galled him. But he didn't know how to avoid it. He wasn't like Romano. He couldn't chase everybody out of his room with a bickering tongue. Luka had been raised with manners, and he had never been quick with words. Not even in his mother tongue. So he had forced out some smiles and some monosyllables, faked he was tired and depressed, and silently prayed they wouldn't stay for long and wouldn't come back.  
  
He pressed the lever to move the bed so he could sit up while Carter went to the bathroom to fill the water jug. He grimaced a little when the weight of his upper body rested on his pelvis. It was still sore from the fracture and the three weeks he had spent lying on his back. Carter came in and handed him a glass, and Luka had a few sips.  
  
"What time is it?" he asked when he finished.  
  
"Quarter past two."  
  
Luka sighed. He had slept for a couple of hours and he knew he would not get any more sleep that night. He put the glass on the nightstand. He pressed the lever again and lowered the bed a little.  
  
"Not sleepy?"  
  
"No," Luka knew where Carter was heading to, so he tried to divert the conversation. "How about you?"  
  
Carter yawned.  
  
"I finished my shift an hour ago."  
  
"So how come you're not home?"  
  
"I start again in six hours. There was really no point in going home. It would make me loose at least an hour's sleep, so I decided to crash here," said Carter pointing at the recliner by the window.  
  
His lengthy explanation was not convincing and he knew he wouldn't fool Luka, but he tried to keep up appearances, anyway.  
  
"That was a bad move." Luka's voice was very quiet. "Those chairs are really uncomfortable."  
  
"Not as much as the couch in the doctor's lounge."  
  
"In the lounge you would at least sleep your six hours straight," Luka had just uttered the words when he bit his lip. He had steered the conversation back to the issue he had been trying to avoid.  
  
"What? With Frank screaming around? Are you kidding me?"  
  
Luka gave a weary smile as Carter sat down on the recliner, put his legs up and laid back as he covered himself with the blanket. Luka sighed. He was lucky. Carter seemed not to have noticed he had just mentioned his lack of sleep. But just then, as he was starting to relax, Carter's quiet voice reached him.  
  
"You really have to talk to someone about it, Luka. You can't keep going on like this."  
  
"Like what?" Luka's voice was sharp, but Carter refused to give up.  
  
"How much sleep have you had in the last three days? Six? Eight hours?"  
  
"That's none of your business."  
  
"It is."  
  
"Since when?"  
  
"Since I fell head over heels with you."  
  
Luka chuckled, and Carter felt how part of the tension between them lessen. There was a brief silence.  
  
"It's called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Carter," Luka's voice was weary.  
  
"I know. And it's treatable."  
  
"With what?"  
  
"Therapy."  
  
"I'm not talking to a shrink."  
  
Carter shifted on the recliner, so he could face Luka. He could clearly see his profile in the dim light.  
  
"I know you think it won't help. I. . . I didn't want to talk to anybody after what happened. . . After my stabbing, and Lucy's death. I thought it was something I'd have to deal with by myself. But I couldn't. And when I finally got therapy it did help, though I often felt silly during the group sessions," he finished his speech somewhat awkwardly.  
  
Luka turned his head to look at Carter. He distinguished his form lying on the chair, but he couldn't see his features. And he didn't know if he wanted to. He felt compelled to answer to Carter's earnestness in kind, and it was so much easier to speak in the dark, where he knew his features wouldn't betray him.  
  
"I know. . . " he replied, softly. "I have gone through the motions, Carter. But it doesn't. . . It doesn't work for me."  
  
He paused. He heard how Carter drew his breath, and he decided to continue before Carter had the chance to talk.  
  
"I've lived with it for over ten years. It's chronic."  
  
Now it was his turn to draw his breath. He looked at the ceiling, in search of the strength he would require to say what came next. After he had quit therapy, over eight years ago, he had rarely talked about it.  
  
"Usually. . . usually it's not this bad. I take. . . one day at a time. There are weeks. . . sometimes months when I don't have nightmares. Then I catch up on my sleep."  
  
Luka's voice had grown very quiet. Carter decided not push any further. It was good enough to see Luka was still opening up to him. Carter had seen Luka interact with his other colleagues when they had visited earlier in the week, and he had finally understood that the Luka he'd known at County had been a kind of mask the real one held up for everybody so he could numb all the pain, all the feelings. He was so different from the nonchalant but also vulnerable man that had suddenly woken up in Brussels.  
  
Carter had understood what Abby had been complaining about when she had been together with Luka, that he wouldn't allow her past a definite barrier, and was surprised that Luka had let him and Gillian cross the line. He also feared that the cool, detached Luka had been slowly killing the other one over the years and that this sudden resurfacing of the older one would be just a temporary thing, that would last as long as Luka was weak and off guard. The last few days Luka had been backing away both from Gillian and from him, retreating into a realm where his eyes would go blank, devoid of emotion. Carter knew better than trying to force him to go to a therapy session. What he needed was a friend he could trust. What he needed was to realize he could trust somebody.  
  
"What was it about?" he risked the question.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your nightmare."  
  
"Uh. . . "  
  
There was a brief silence, and Carter feared he had overstepped the limits.  
  
"A landmine."  
  
Luka's answer came when Carter was no longer expecting it. He shuddered. It sounded much worse than Paul Sobriki's repeated appearances in his own dreams.  
  
"I've been dreaming about that gun barrel," he offered in turn. "I can't see it, but I can feel it against my forehead."  
  
Luka cleared his throat.  
  
"I'd rather not talk about it, Carter."  
  
"Yeah. I know. I had to give it a try, anyway. . . " Carter offered as an apology. "Are you still sick?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
Carter sat on the recliner, drew the blanket to one side and bent down to put on his sneakers.  
  
"Because I'm getting myself something to drink. I was wondering if you'd like something from the machine."  
  
He heard Luka chuckle as he stood up.  
  
"You won't get too much sleep this way."  
  
Carter scratched the top of his head and shrugged.  
  
"What can I say? I'm suddenly not sleepy anymore," he asserted, but he couldn't stifle a yawn.  
  
"You're no poker player, Carter"  
  
Luka's voice held a mild undertone of reproach.  
  
"Uh huh. . . Will you have something?"  
  
"Ginger ale."  
  
Luka watched the door close as Carter went out of the room. He knew Carter's story about loosing one hour's sleep if he went home was nothing but a weak excuse to keep him company. Luka wasn't sure he liked having woken up and finding Carter had just overstepped the limits of his privacy, but he was too exhausted to get annoyed with him. Carter meant well, and he was not being awkward or too pressing. Luka was thankful for that. He'd barely survived some of his visitors from downstairs.  
  
Kerry, for example. She'd jumped all over Carter the minute they arrived at County. Luka, who had been wanting to drop dead under the blaze of humiliation when he learnt he would be wheeled through the ER, had closed his eyes, pretending to be unconscious or asleep. He didn't want to see the doctors and nurses staring at him with the mixture of pity and fascination he knew so well. Still, when the doors slammed open, he felt their looks piercing his body. The clamorous ER had suddenly gone dead still.  
  
He was more than relieved when he was wheeled into the elevator and upstairs. But Kerry got into the elevator with them, and started hectoring Carter for not having called Luka's family in Croatia. As the elevator slowly climbed up to the sixth floor, Luka felt how a wave of indignation washed over him. What did SHE know about his family anyway? Why was she so damn sure he'd have to be flown to Croatia instead? That it was -how had she put it now- the place where he BELONGED?  
  
The drop that had overflowed the cup had been Kerry's scorn when she had asked Carter whether he'd become Luka's legal guardian so he could sign him into County. Luka's eyes had flown open then, and he had extended his hand towards the chart Kerry was holding.  
  
"Give it to me, Kerry," he'd said, his accent thicker with irritation. "I'll sign myself in. And yes, I DO belong here."  
  
He glared at her while the doors of the elevator opened, and Carter pushed the gurney past an unresponsive Kerry. Gillian gracefully snapped the chart from her hands and put it between Luka's. He signed it and then Carter deposited it on the nurse's station, while he and Gillian doubled over with laughter.  
  
But Luka hadn't been free from Kerry's ministrations. That night, when the doctors had been finally done with probing and poking his body and discussing him as if he wasn't there, when Carter and Gillian had finally succumbed to jet lag and had at last admitted he could do without them for a few hours, when he finally was left alone with his thoughts, the door of his room had opened and admitted the new chief of staff.  
  
Luka had been partly lying on his side, facing the window, held up by some pillows, but he clearly recognized the squeaking of the crutch against the linoleum floor.  
  
"I thought one was supposed to knock," Luka couldn't help the crankiness in his voice.  
  
"I didn't want to wake you," answered Kerry. "How are you, Luka?"  
  
She was still standing behind him. Luka heard how she picked the chart that hung from the side of the bed. Rage surged up inside him.  
  
"If you're going to violate my privacy why bother to ask me?" He snapped.  
  
Kerry quickly put the chart back. She hadn't meant to pry into Luka's medical history. She had picked it up only as a reflex. She regretted it. She had come to apologize for her behavior earlier that day and now she had started the wrong way, having affronted Luka once again.  
  
"I'm sorry. . . " She offered, going round the bed to face him. "I didn't mean to pry. How are you?"  
  
Luka only let out a sharp, contemptuous breath in response. The lines of his face had hardened with weight loss and fatigue, and his expression was closed.  
  
"How do I look?" He retorted.  
  
"Exhausted, emaciated, feverish."  
  
Kerry's straightforwardness caught him off guard, but the patronizing undertone in her voice only fueled his irritation.  
  
"Then why not leave me alone?"  
  
Kerry sighed, and looked down. This was going to be hard. She didn't want to upset Luka anymore, but she had to say what she had come to tell him.  
  
"It'll only take a few minutes, Luka. I've got news for you."  
  
She waited for him to say something, but he just stared at her. She continued:  
  
"Given your state of health at the time, and Carter's refusal to fly you to Croatia, I contacted your family a week ago. We've been doing everything to get your father to Chicago. The American Embassy in Zagreb has issued him a visa and he's. . . "  
  
"WHAT?" Luka's cry cut her dead. "Kerry, what did you TELL my father?"  
  
"I informed him of the gravity of your condition."  
  
"You didn't have any right to do that! Do you have the faintest. . . " Luka couldn't finish his sentence. He started coughing.  
  
Kerry leant a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"It was my duty, Luka. I had to notify. . . "  
  
Luka shrugged Kerry's hand off his shoulder with a brusque gesture. Suddenly, coughing turned into retching and before he could master it he had stained the pillow. Kerry hurried into the bathroom and came out with a basin and a wet towel. She retrieved the pillow from under his head and put the basin on the bed. She cleaned his face as he heaved. He tried to shun her touch. He made some vain attempts to push her away, his anger and frustration mounting with his helplessness. Finally, he found the call button and pressed it.  
  
"Go away, Kerry," he gasped when he regained some breath.  
  
Kerry had noticed him calling the nurse, and understood only too well how he must be feeling, but she wouldn't leave him alone until there was somebody there to aid him.  
  
"Luka, you really. . . " she protested.  
  
"OUT!" he cried.  
  
The nurse arrived.  
  
"Do you need anything, Dr. Weaver?"  
  
Jesus. Didn't she notice he actually EXISTED?  
  
"Dr. Kovac needs some assistance here," answered Kerry as if she had read his thoughts.  
  
That only got him angrier. He stared fixedly at her in impotent wrath before he doubled over in another heaving bout. The nurse got another wet towel and applied it to his neck while she held his head over the basin. When the bout was finally over and he lay back on the mattress, Kerry was gone.  
  
"They prescribed you some Compazine, Dr. Kovac. Will you have it?"  
  
He nodded, too exhausted to talk.  
  
"I'll be right back."  
  
He stared out of the window, as he felt a hollowness open up in the pit of his stomach. Tata had to be sick with worry. Luka had to call him right away, to clear things up. . . But he couldn't make a long distance call from the room and only God knew where his cell phone was. . . When would Carter and Gillian come to the hospital? At about nine or ten? He couldn't wait that long to talk to Tata. Would there be someone from the ER to lend him a cell phone for a while? But whom? He hadn't been on very good terms with his colleagues before he traveled to the Congo, and he really didn't want to ask any favor from any of them. . . He took a deep breath and held it when he realized he was starting to feel sick again.  
  
The nurse came back with another pillow which she stuffed underneath his head and a glass of water to rinse his mouth. Luka went through the motions docilely and watched as she injected the Compazine in the IV port. He wished it had been a sedative instead. He wouldn't be able to get any sleep that night.  
  
Whom could he ask for a cell phone? Maybe Gallant or Susan. . . or Abby, if they were on shift. He'd call down to the ER to find out. What was the extension of the ER, now? He rolled his head to catch a look at the phone on the side table. It was just out of his reach. Then he heard the nurse clear her throat.  
  
"Dr. Kovac. . . "  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Dr. Weaver left this in the nurse's station for you. She said that if you wanted to make a call you could just. . . Well, you could just use it as long as you wanted."  
  
She left the cell phone in Luka's hand. Luka stared at it. His first impulse was to throw it against the wall but he realized, humiliated, that he'd have to accept Kerry's offer. He let the phone on the mattress, beside him.  
  
"Can I get you anything else? Another blanket?"  
  
"No, thank you," he whispered, defeated.  
  
He waited until she closed the door behind her. Then he picked up Kerry's cell phone and started dialing the long number he had long ago committed to memory.  
  
When he heard the raspy sound of his father's voice on the other side of the line, he remembered what time it was in Croatia.  
  
"Tata?"  
  
His mother tongue came back to him as a blessing, but still the only thing he could blurt out was: "Did I wake you?"  
  
* * * *  
  
"Luka? Aren't you thirsty?"  
  
Luka found himself holding a cold can between his hands, and facing Carter's worried eyes.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Do you want me to open it for you?"  
  
"No. . . "  
  
Luka lifted the tap carefully and heard the familiar fizz. He had a few sips, trying to ignore Carter's concerned stare.  
  
"Where were you?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"When I came in. You were miles away."  
  
Luka smiled. It was somehow refreshing Carter managed to keep a light mood even when voicing his worries.  
  
"Thinking about my father."  
  
Carter nodded.  
  
"What time does his plane land?"  
  
"Three p.m." Luka sighed, and stated what they both knew: "Gillian's picking him up."  
  
"He's coming straight to the hospital, isn't he?"  
  
"I'd hope he wasn't."  
  
Carter's forehead creased in incomprehension.  
  
"He's taller than me," Luka explained. "And he's not exactly young any more. He'll be drained when he gets here. . . "  
  
Carter nodded. He would be finishing his shift by three. He considered whether he should stay at the hospital to act as a barrier between Kerry and Luka's father, or between Kerry and Luka, for that matter.  
  
Kerry had taken to heart the task of bringing Luka's father to the States, and that had infuriated Luka beyond endurance. He didn't want his father to see him like that, he'd said. His father had gone through enough during the war. He didn't need any more pain, and he wouldn't be able to get enough time off work to see him fully recovered. At Kerry's suggestion that Luka should consider traveling to Croatia when he had got better, he'd only snorted his disdain.  
  
Carter wasn't sure he understood. He had the intense feeling Luka missed his homeland, but he didn't have any clue so as to how often had he been back in Croatia after he had emigrated. Returning wasn't an easy task for Luka, not even for a short stay, Carter guessed, but he had abstained from asking. He had the strong feeling he would be walking on very thin ice if he ventured on the subject.  
  
"Do you think it'll be a good idea for me to come to greet your father when he arrives?"  
  
Carter's question was wary, almost bashful. It made Luka smile.  
  
"I don't know. . . There'll be a lot of people up here at the time."  
  
"What, Weaver's throwing a block party and you're hiding it from me?"  
  
Luka huffed.  
  
"It's more like. . . How do you call it? An execution squad?"  
  
"A FIRING squad. But you can't believe she took all the pains to bring your father all the way to America to shoot him down the first day he sets his foot in County, do you?"  
  
"The reception committee is Weaver, Romano and Anspaugh."  
  
"Gee. . . I'll try to get a bulletproof vest for your dad."  
  
Luka chuckled, but then the look on his eyes darkened.  
  
"She's even hired a translator," he said bitterly.  
  
"Ah. . . Don't tell me she doesn't trust you anymore. . . "  
  
Luka looked away.  
  
"Was that the reason for your argument earlier today?"  
  
"You heard about it?"  
  
"Luka, I HEARD IT. Your voice was so loud it was coming all the way down to the ER," Carter overstated. He wanted to keep the conversation on the light side. "Romano's scared to death. You're clouding his reputation."  
  
He only got a weak smile as an answer.  
  
"I'd rather not talk about it, Carter," Luka's voice was but a defeated whisper. His eyes trailed off.  
  
He had a few sips from his can and then left it on the nightstand. Carter understood. He sat on the recliner.  
  
"Well, if you want somebody to contribute to the mess. . . "  
  
There was no answer for a while.  
  
"You'll be as drained as my father," Luka sighed. "It'll be better if you head home."  
  
Carter nodded, and lay down. He had a few sips from his Coke. They shared a companionable silence for a while, until Luka broke it again.  
  
"But thank you. . . "  
  
Carter smiled in the dark. 


	6. Chapter 6

Gillian stared into her empty espresso paper cup and considered sipping the last remains of cold coffee. She decided against it and tapped the table with the bottom of the cup. Should she go outside and light another cigarette? No, it was too cold, and she had grown tired of tired of freezing for the sake of a few drags.  
  
That was something she missed from Africa. Being able to smoke almost anywhere she pleased. . . No, not really. What she really missed was sharing a cigarette. In the Congo, smoking was still a social habit. She had shared cigarettes with almost everyone she knew. Smoking had been part of talking, being silent, drinking, relaxing together. Here in the States it was an individual habit, a private affair, something you did on your own while the people you knew were not watching.  
  
She smiled grimly when she realized the irony on what she had just thought. When the people you knew were not watching. She only knew two people in Chicago. One of them was too busy coping with interminable insurance forms, medical bills and ID papers plus trying to get back to his already too demanding job to have some time or energy to spare in watching her smoke.  
  
And the other one. . . Well, it was as if the other one was refusing to look at her. Already in Brussels, she had noticed Luka was uncomfortable with her taking care of him, so she had given up performing nursing chores as soon as there was medical staff that could do them. But then he had even been ashamed of her doing small things for him, things that only friends would do, like bringing clothes and toiletries for him, getting him something to read or some music, coaxing him to eat. . . He'd been constantly unresponsive to all her gestures of approach, had been retreating back into himself every time she got closer.  
  
Just that morning, when she had made it to the hospital with a pot of strawberry ice cream in one hand and a can of shaving cream in the other, she hadn't been able to pull out a smile from him. He'd only stared at the items she had brought, had thanked her bleakly and had had a couple of spoonfuls of ice cream out of mere courtesy. She'd hung around for a few minutes, in a kind of awkward silence until the nurse had come to clean his pin sites. She had left for the cafeteria to have a cup of lukewarm coffee, for she knew he didn't want her around while his body was exposed.  
  
Half an hour later she'd made her way down to his room again, and had found him giving the first steps by himself. She'd stood on the threshold as she watched him, dressed in the hospital gown and the robe she'd bought for him, leaning heavily on the Zimmer frame and following closely the instructions of the RN and the orderly which were encouraging him to cross the short distance between the bed and the recliner. When they had helped him to turn around and lowered him onto the chair, he had caught sight of her. A sudden flash of irritation had passed over his eyes. She had averted her gaze.  
  
When she had looked up again, the rage had been replaced by the guarded, hooded look that was the constant in him now. She had complimented him for his first walking tour, but somehow her words had sounded hollow. So had his replies. They had kept silent for a while until she had made a lame excuse and left, telling him she'd drop by before she headed for the airport.  
  
When she'd closed the door of his room, she'd realized it was the first time she ran from him. Running from lovers was not a new experience for her, but this was the first time she ran not because of fear of commitment from her part. This time she was being rejected, politely but firmly dismissed.  
  
She chastised herself. What did she expect, anyway? Their relationship in the Congo had been established on a casual basis. No expectations, no bonding, no commitment. No talking about the past, no getting to know each other, just an enjoyment of each other's body, a way of loosing oneself in physical contact. Everything she'd felt from the time they had found him in the refugee camp had been for her to feel only. He didn't share it, and didn't want to. He only felt ashamed and humiliated because his once healthy and very attractive body had been reduced to a pained helplessness, and thus he wasn't the strong man that would gather her in his arms and make her forget the insanity of the war going on around them.   
  
With a gesture of exasperation, Gillian stood up and checked for the hundredth time the arrival of a certain plane from Paris. It was delayed half an hour. She still had a forty five minute wait. She had come all too early to the airport and it hadn't been because she had been afraid of the traffic or getting lost in the maze of Chicago highways.  
  
She had stopped by Luka's room that afternoon like she had promised. The hairdresser she had contacted the day before had been there, and Luka's hair had neatly been cut. Unable to hide the effect his good looks made on her, she had whistled admiringly, but his frown had cut short whatever teasing she could have embarked upon. Her attempts at light conversation had turned into meaningless sentences to which he had just answered with one word replies and curt smiles. At last he'd suddenly asked her when was she going to go home. She'd stammered that she still had a week of vacation, and he had observed that, according to his point of view, she'd already atoned for whatever she considered she had to expiate. She could spend the rest of her holiday having some real time off. She had tried to explain:  
  
"Luka, I. . . "  
  
"Don't."  
  
"Don't what?"  
  
"Don't give me any excuses. I've had enough of them."  
  
"But I'm not. . . " She stopped short.  
  
There was no easy way to put it. She really didn't recognize herself. She was behaving like a teenager, falling for a man she barely knew, resigning her job and even considering moving to another city for his sake. That's something you did when you were seventeen or eighteen, not when you were in the middle of your life and your career.  
  
She had thought of Luka as a flame and herself as the moth attracted to it. Whatever beauty the image might still have in her eyes, she had to recognise it was a cliché, a mawkish commonplace. She laughed at herself. Gillian, the fancy-free, starring in a pg-13 melodrama.  
  
She wiped her cheeks with her fingertips when she realized she was crying. She cast a look at the strangers around her and was reassured when they all turned away their glances in pretence of politeness. Angry at herself, she located the nearest bathroom and washed her face.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Petar trudged along what he hoped was the last stretch of the interminable airport. He'd been worrying about not catching the connecting plane on time and not being able to speak to the immigration officers, but he'd never thought he'd have to walk down endless corridors bearing all the weight of his two suitcases and the large package with the paintings he'd brought over for Luka. The muscles on his arms ached, and he knew he was coming to the end of his stamina. He already could feel a slight tremor in his limbs. His knees were shaking. Years didn't come alone. With a sigh, he dropped into a chair and set everything down. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. He took a couple of minutes to gather himself and then stood up and picked up his things again. There was someone waiting for him outside the gates. His plane had been delayed. He'd better hurry.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Gillian glanced over the crowd that was coming out of immigration stretching her neck, and holding high the piece of paper where she'd scribbled "Mr. Petar Kovac". She damned her fate for not being taller. Would Luka's father locate her among all these people? What would he look like? Would he hold a resemblance to Luka? An elderly, bald man made his way out of the gates. He was looking around and seemed slightly lost. Gillian decided that could be him. She raised her sign and started to smile in anticipation. The man's eyes brushed over her sign and past her, and she felt slightly ridiculous. She focused on the gates again.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
There were a lot of people outside the gates. Everybody was blending in hugs and kisses, or shaking hands politely. Petar found himself caught in the vortex of it, scanning for somebody that should be looking for him. He even felt a slight panic attack when he realized he didn't know who was supposed to pick him up. But then he spotted the petite woman, holding up the sign with his name, looking quite bewildered. He slowly made his way towards her, mumbling words of excuse when his suitcases hit the people around him.  
  
Suddenly, there was a very tall, broad-shouldered man standing in front of her. When Gillian lifted her gaze, she found herself facing a grey bearded face and a pair of very kind, familiar hazel eyes.  
  
"I'm Petar Kovac," said the man as he left his suitcases on the floor.  
  
Gillian smiled broadly as a warm wave hit her. Petar's voice had the same deep, raspy intonation as Luka's.  
  
"Welcome to America," she said.  
  
Petar straightened in surprise, as he heard the words being spoken in Croatian.  
  
"Do you speak Croatian?"  
  
Gillian grinned and shrugged.  
  
"Only this," she answered, holding up her thumb and index, signalling a very small amount. "And very badly."  
  
"I don't think so. . . " Petar retorted, and held his hand out. "Nice meeting you. . . "  
  
"Gillian," she answered. A flash of recognition passed over Petar's eyes, and they grew warmer, if possible. He gathered her to him and suddenly Gillian found herself drowning in his arms. The hug was cordial but short.  
  
"Thank you. . . " whispered Petar as he let go of her. She seemed shocked, so he felt compelled to explain. "Thanks for saving my son's life."  
  
Gillian understood he was thanking her, but didn't catch the last sentence.  
  
"I don't understand," she replied, happy that she had been practicing sentences like that one.  
  
Petar's forehead creased as he struggled with the foreign words.  
  
"You were in Congo, no? You care about Luka. . . Thank you."  
  
A sad smile played in the corners of Gillian's mouth as she considered the truth behind Petar's words. He'd meant to say that she had taken care of Luka, but yes, she DID care about him. Pity Luka didn't feel the same gratitude as his father, she thought bitterly. She was suddenly sickened by the disappointment that had been gnawing at her the past week, and which she had kept at bay until that day, when Luka's words had finally made things clear between them. She hurried to answer.  
  
"There's nothing you have to thank me for. . . Shall I help you with these?"  
  
She pointed at the suitcases, and when Petar didn't react (he was probably trying to figure out what she'd just said), she grabbed one of the suitcases and tried to lift it. It was much heavier than she'd thought.  
  
"No, no. . . " muttered Petar. "That is..." he stopped, short of vocabulary. "Too heavy," he continued in Croatian.  
  
Gillian smiled. She hadn't recognised the word, but she knew what he meant.  
  
"Heavy," she offered in English.  
  
"Heavy," he repeated. "Yes, heavy. I take it. You this," he gave her the package with the paintings.  
  
She looked curiously at it and then tucked it under her arm while Petar lifted the suitcases.  
  
"Paintings. For Luka," he explained.  
  
Her face lit in understanding.  
  
"Ah. . . and those?" She asked pointing at the suitcase she had tried to lift, before she could help herself. She regretted it instantly, fearing he'd be upset by her nosing where she was not supposed to. But her fears were quickly dispelled.  
  
"Books. For Luka," Petar had fallen back to Croatian, but she understood.  
  
"Books?"  
  
Petar nodded. The suitcase was really heavy. It had to be full of them.  
  
"Much books," she said.  
  
"A LOT OF books," corrected Petar.  
  
She smiled.  
  
"A LOT OF books," she repeated. And then she tried another sentence. "All for Luka?"  
  
"Yes, they're all for him," sighed Petar resignedly.  
  
She chuckled, and started leading the way.  
  
"Come," she tried a bit more Croatian. "The car is there."  
  
"The car is OVER there," Petar gently corrected her, and got a full smile from her.  
  
She'd learn a lot if she had the chance to spend some time with Luka's father. And maybe not only Croatian. She had never thought Luka was a keen reader. Gillian wondered what kinds of books he preferred.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
When the doors of the elevator opened and they stepped out on the sixth floor, Gillian froze. At the end of the corridor stood the firing squad, as Luka had called them. Gillian had met them all earlier in the week, but though they were a bit intimidating, especially Weaver and Romano, they were not the reason for her fright. Beside them stood a middle aged, lanky man, dressed in a cassock. She recognised him immediately, and was about to go back into the elevator when Petar took her by the arm. She looked up. His warm eyes were regarding her inquisitively.  
  
"I'm sorry, I think I forgot something in the car. . . " she stuttered.  
  
He didn't release her from his grasp, but smiled, reassuringly.  
  
"Not important," he said. "Come with me?"  
  
"I really can't. . . "  
  
The doors of the elevator were closing and the four people were coming towards them. If she didn't move straightaway, it'd be too late. But Petar's eyes had her nailed to the spot. Oh, hell. She'd face it. Luka had made it clear he didn't want her around any more. What would it matter if he and his father found about the tapes now? She could just hand them back to them before she left for Montreal. She smiled with what she hoped was more than a half faked grimace.  
  
"All right."  
  
Petar smiled in turn and winked at her reassuringly. He'd sensed her fear when she spotted the four people that were about to talk to them, and had seen how she had tried to escape. His curiosity had been piqued by it. Out of the halting conversation they had held in the car, he'd got a very good impression of her. She was amiable, good-natured. She was learning Croatian with an energy that spoke volumes about her interest in Luka. And her eyes sparkled when she spoke about him. Oh, well, he was maybe making up the last bit, but anyway.  
  
"Mr. Kovac?"  
  
He turned around to face the four people in front of him, still holding Gillian. He nodded.  
  
"I'm Kerry Weaver."  
  
He released Gillian and shook Dr. Weaver's hand heartily.  
  
"Nice to meet you, doctor."  
  
Kerry smiled. Petar noticed there was a tension around her eyes that didn't disappear with her smile. She continued the presentations. Petar shook the hands of the two other doctors, not understanding very clearly who they were, or why was he supposed to meet them. It struck him that, out of the three doctors, one was walking with the aid of a crutch and the other one had only one arm. But he didn't stare. He'd learnt to brush over such things back home. When he heard the name of the priest, he turned to Croatian.  
  
"Pleased to meet you, father."  
  
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Kovac. I'm here to translate for you."  
  
A wave of fear darkened Petar's expression.  
  
"But surely Luka. . . Hasn't he. . . "  
  
"No, Mr. Kovac. Luka's fine, and you'll get to see him soon. But Dr. Weaver would like to brief you over Luka's condition before, and. . . " The priest shot a glance at Gillian, who was staring fixedly at the floor. "And I think I should also inform you about some other things."  
  
Petar's curiosity soared, but once again he managed to fake polite disinterestedness.  
  
"All right," he said, and ducked his head in a slight bow. "Gentlemen. . . " his English made the three doctors smile.  
  
Dr. Weaver gestured towards a door down the hall, and Petar took Gillian's arm once again. She would have stayed behind if he hadn't, and he was sure she wouldn't remain on the corridor until the end of his little medical conference. He noticed Father Pritic's contrite expression. There was definitely something wrong between Gillian and the priest. Dr. Weaver didn't seem too happy about him dragging the Canadian with him either, but Petar was not going to loosen his grasp. He was sure there was nothing about Luka's medical condition Gillian didn't know about already, since she had been the one to get Luka out of the Congo with this American doctor. . . What was his name now? Petar cursed his bad memory for foreign names.  
  
They made their way into a small conference room and soon they were all sitting around the table. A mug of weak coffee was placed in front of Petar and Dr. Weaver started her report. Petar listened carefully. Both him and Stjepan had got to talk to Dr. Weaver several times over the phone. Stjepan was much better at it, and had dutifully translated the words of the doctor, but Petar still wasn't sure he understood what was wrong with Luka, besides having broken a lot of bones and having undergone surgery. He had the sensation the doctors weren't sure of it either. He wanted to confirm his impression. However, the longer the conference took, the more impatient he became. He had the urge to see Luka. Finally, Dr. Weaver was finished, and after a brief speech from the eldest doctor, they all rose. Still, Petar had a question.  
  
"And Dr. . . " He stopped short. "The one that went to the Congo to get Luka?"  
  
The priest translated.  
  
"Dr. Carter?" asked Dr. Weaver.  
  
"Yes, I would like to thank him."  
  
Petar waited until Dr. Romano's answer was translated. It was the first time the man opened his mouth, after he had muttered his greetings in the corridor.  
  
"Dr. Carter was on shift until three p.m. He worked part of the night. He must be home by now, but I'm sure you'll get to see him tomorrow."  
  
Petar liked the little doctor's straightforwardness. He nodded and went out of the office, at the invitation of the doctors. He let Dr. Weaver and Gillian go out of the door first, and when he was about to cross the threshold, the priest stopped him.  
  
"Mr. Kovac."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I'd like to have a couple of words with you after you've seen your son, if you don't mind."  
  
Petar nodded.  
  
Then he was escorted down the corridor by all the people. Dr. Weaver stopped by a room and knocked, but when she was about to open the door, the eldest doctor took the handle and motioned Petar to come in with his free hand. Petar found himself within a dim lit room while the door was closed behind him.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The blinds were open, and Gillian couldn't take her eyes away from the room. She saw Petar go in, stop in his tracks. She saw Luka's anxious look, glued to his father. Then she heard their low, raspy voices, and she watched as Petar came close to the bed, bent over it and gave his son a hug. Luka's thin arms wrapped around the back of his father, tightly. Then a kind hand grabbed her elbow, much in the way Petar's had done earlier. She turned around at the sound of Dr. Anspaugh's voice.  
  
"I think we'd better give them some privacy, hadn't we?"  
  
Gillian nodded, and felt her cheeks burn.  
  
"Would you like a cup of coffee?"  
  
Gillian glanced around. The priest was talking reservedly to Dr. Weaver, and Dr. Romano was just walking away.  
  
"Yes, thank you," she said with a sigh. She suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her.  
  
Dr. Anspaugh nodded his farewell towards Dr. Weaver and the priest and then turned towards Gillian.  
  
"We'll take it in my office, if you don't mind," he said as he led her away.  
  
Gillian nodded again, but then she stopped.  
  
"But I have to take Mr. Kovac to. . . What if he comes out and doesn't. . . ?"  
  
Dr. Anspaugh smiled again.  
  
"We'll leave a message for him at the nurse's station. Or better still, we'll ask them to give us a call."  
  
He stopped by the nurse's station and gave some instructions. Gillian watched Dr. Weaver and the priest absentmindedly, as she nervously bit one of her nails. Oh, God. She'd have to face THAT afterwards. Would the priest bring Dr. Weaver into the discussion? Then she noticed that Dr. Anspaugh was speaking to her.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, I'm just a bit tired."   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Petar glanced one last time at Luka's sleeping form before he closed the door quietly. Luka had been fighting off sleep during the last half hour, but he'd at last fallen prey to it, and Petar was glad for it. Luka needed his rest. He looked so fragile and defenceless among the pillows. A memory, which Petar had fought off during their conversation, suddenly overwhelmed him. Luka, lying on another hospital bed, so thin his cheekbones protruded under his skin and his eyes seemed to have doubled their size, staring at him. Luka in so much pain he didn't seem himself anymore, having gone all the way past words, past tears and past desperation.  
  
Petar shut his eyes tightly and leant his forehead on the door. Then, with an effort, he unstuck himself from it and glanced around. There wasn't anybody in the hall. He walked towards the nurse's station and then caught eye of Father Pritic sitting in the waiting area. The man stood up as soon as he saw him, and Petar found himself wishing the priest wasn't there.  
  
He was so tired. He only wanted to go to Luka's apartment and crash there, and sleep a whole week. Jesus. He only wished he could get some sleep. Since he had got the first phone call from County he hadn't been able to sleep for more than two or three hours in a row. First had been the anxiousness about not knowing exactly what had happened to Luka. It had taken more than a phone conference and Stjepan's help to find that out. Then there had come the endless gathering of the documents he needed for the visa, the concern to get another negative answer from the American government on grounds of his poor wages, his talks with his boss to get a couple of weeks off and getting loans from friends and family for the flight.  
  
And now that he was finally there, his concern for Luka had mounted heaps instead of decreasing. Petar knew that he should have been somewhat reassured. Luka's initial illness was under control, his bones were healing well and he was in a very good hospital. And well, he was conscious, not in the dazed state Dr. Weaver had described to him over the phone two weeks ago. That had freaked Petar so much that though he had spoken with Luka several times after that first phone call in the small hours of the morning, he hadn't been able to leave his worries behind. And now. . . Luka was weak and exhausted. And he was obviously in pain and not just physical pain.  
  
Petar had got used to the idea he would probably never see Luka regain the vitality and capacity to enjoy life he had had before the war, but he'd hoped he would never have to see the look of grief that had haunted his son's eyes the years after the fall of Vukovar. And now it was there again, lingering deep inside.  
  
And there was something else, a certain hardness and bluntness about Luka, something that Petar couldn't really spell out. He'd sensed it three years before, when Luka had been on a short visit for Christmas, but Petar had just dismissed it. He had told himself it was normal Luka had changed while living abroad. It was only a natural transformation, like the slight American accent that had slipped into the way he pronounced Croatian, and which caused Stjepan's daughters to tease their American uncle. Yet now the brusqueness was so intense he couldn't fool himself any longer. Petar sighed and tried to concentrate on Father Pritic's words.  
  
"She has kept the tapes, and I'm afraid your son doesn't know about their existence, Mr. Kovac."  
  
"I'm sorry, Father. I think I missed something. Which tapes?"  
  
Father Pritic studied the man in front of him. He seemed tired and was so distracted he hadn't heard a word he had said.  
  
"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Kovac?"  
  
"I don't think so. I've had too many already."  
  
"Would you like something else? Tea? Some water, perhaps?"  
  
Petar let out a tired smile. He would have loved to tell Father Pritic precisely how he felt and what he wanted, but he feared his terms would be too rough for the priest's ears.  
  
"No, thank you. You were telling me?"  
  
Father Pritic started his tale once again, from the beginning. This time, after the first two minutes, he got Petar's full attention.  
  
"Did she ask you to translate them for her?" Petar couldn't believe his own ears.  
  
The father nodded, and Petar kept still for a while. He didn't need to ask what was on the tapes. He had a pretty good idea. They should resemble Luka's incoherent babble at the Red Cross hospital in Zagreb, and the nightmares that had plagued him during his first months back home. He tried not to shudder. THOSE were the things she had tried to understand. Petar didn't know whether he should be amazed or disgusted. She could have done that out of an earnest fondness for Luka, but also out of a sick curiosity, the one Petar had seen in the eyes of the numerous journalists that had tried to interview Luka when it was heard he had survived the massacre of the hospital in Vukovar.  
  
The doors of the elevator down the corridor opened, and out stepped Gillian and the kind old doctor who had opened the door to Luka's room. Petar saw how she looked at him and the priest, how she stopped and recoiled, scared. Scared and ashamed. She knew Father Pritic had just told him. And she felt embarrassed. Petar stood up and smiled, as he walked towards her. This had never been the reaction of any of the journalists he'd known. They had always thought they had the RIGHT to know. They had always talked in a loud voice, full of arrogance and self-confidence, stepping over whoever was in their way. Petar held out his hands.  
  
"You returned," he said.  
  
Something in his words should have been wrong, for they elicited a smile both from Gillian and the doctor. Petar acknowledged the doctor's presence with a polite nod and shook his hand, while the man said something he didn't quite understand. He caught the word 'coffee' though. Were they offering him yet another cup? No, it wasn't the case. After shaking his hand a bit longer, the doctor turned around and headed down the corridor. Petar sighed in relief.  
  
"We go home?" he asked Gillian, and his heart warmed when he got yet another smile from her. "You wait here. I go say good bye to Father Pritic, yes?"  
  
Gillian nodded, trying to keep the smile pasted to her face. She wrung her hands while he walked down the corridor and shook the priest's hand. Father Pritic seemed shocked, but Petar didn't give him time to protest. He turned around and came back to Gillian, took her by the elbow in his cordial, gentlemanly way and escorted her to the elevator.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Petar dropped the two suitcases on the floor and had a look around the living room.  
  
"This Luka's apartment?" He asked Gillian, unable to believe his own eyes.  
  
"Yes. . . " Answered Gillian while she tried to understand Petar's surprise. Was the apartment too big for his standards? Maybe too stylish? Or too luxurious?  
  
Petar looked at the polished floor and the dark furniture. The lines of the tables were angled, hard. The surfaces were so shiny and neat they almost repelled him. Everything was in the strictest order. There was not a single object there bearing the mark of a human hand, nothing that revealed somebody actually INHABITED that place. The room seemed a picture on the cover of a designer's magazine. The bare walls, painted in dark colours, gave out a cold atmosphere. Petar advanced until he was in the middle of the living room and then he spotted the gigantic fish tank. He let out a grin, and turned towards Gillian.  
  
"THAT is Luka's," he said, pointing at the fish tank.  
  
He came closer to it to admire the myriad of tropical fish that swam around. It was a beautiful fish tank with a filter, a warmer for the water and numerous plants. He shook his head and chuckled.  
  
"Why?" Asked Gillian, and when Petar looked at her, a baffled expression on his face, she tried to phrase her question in Croatian. "Why you say the. . . the. . . that is Luka's?"  
  
"Why DO you say that THE FISH TANK is Luka's?" Petar corrected, and made her repeat the question, before he attempted an answer in English.  
  
"Luka want fish when little, always. He got them from sea. Had them in jars. Marmalade jars. But they always die. Now he has all fish in big jar."  
  
A sad smile played in the corners of Gillian's mouth, as she fought back a knot in her throat. She blinked several times and took a deep breath.  
  
"The bedroom is down the hall," she said in English. "And the kitchen is that room on the left. Would you like something to drink?"  
  
She hurried into the kitchen and opened the fridge. When Petar got to the kitchen, she had her head stuck into it.  
  
"Would you like some juice? Or maybe some water? Or a beer?" She asked, taking the items out so he could see them in case he didn't understand.  
  
"Beer, thank you," answered Petar.  
  
He was surprised by the sudden display of sadness in Gillian's eyes when he'd spoken about Luka.  
  
"You drink with me?" He asked her when she handed him the beer.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Gillian took another beer from the fridge and two glasses from the counter. She followed Petar into the living room. Petar sat on one of the chairs and was a little surprised at how low he came to sit. He felt as if his knees were higher than his head. Jesus. With all the money he could spend on furniture, Luka couldn't get himself a proper armchair. Petar fought against the cushions to sit a little straighter. He then opened his beer and poured it into the glass Gillian had given him. They drank in silence. He cast an oblique look at her. She still seemed distressed and he didn't want to be too inquisitive.  
  
"Are you hungry?" He asked her after a while.  
  
Gillian sighed, and he feared she had not understood him.  
  
"Only this," she answered, making the same gesture as she had done in the airport when he had asked her about her Croatian.  
  
"Me too."  
  
"Should we. . . " He watched as she battled with the words. "Should we call food?"  
  
Petar's forehead creased. He didn't understand a thing.  
  
"A restaurant? They bring food here."  
  
"Ah. . . Yes."  
  
She stood up with relief and got the phone book.  
  
"What food?"  
  
He frowned again. She continued in English.  
  
"Chinese?" Petar shook his head. "Pizza? Chicago is famous for it's pizza."  
  
He didn't seem too impressed, but acquiesced. She picked up the phone and dialled the number.  
  
"They bring it in twenty minutes," she tried a longer sentence in Croatian and then she fell silent again.  
  
He didn't correct her. She fidgeted a little with her beer glass. She was aware he was watching her from his armchair. Suddenly, Petar's huge hand covered hers and stopped her nervous movement. She looked up and met his worried eyes.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
She barely managed a smile.  
  
"I'm good. But I am. . . " she sighed and tilted her head to a side, faking exhaustion.  
  
"Tired," Petar provided. "You are tired."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Me too. It was a long flight."  
  
She nodded, and he continued, speaking very slowly and choosing simple words. She had just been at the verge of tears, and the small talk seemed to appease her.  
  
"It was the first time I crossed the ocean."  
  
"Yes? How was that?"  
  
"Boring."  
  
Her forehead creased. He faked a yawn and then tapped the back of the coffee table while he cupped his chin on the other hand, looking at the ceiling. She laughed.  
  
"How do you say it in Croatian?"  
  
"Boring."  
  
She tried the word, and he corrected her pronunciation. Their conversation continued in a somewhat easier manner, despite the language limitations. After a little while, Gillian had to produce her French-Croatian dictionary and Petar was impressed by it. She couldn't resist the temptation of showing him her grammar. At last, she brought out the little phrase book, and that caused more than a laugh. Apparently some of the expressions in the book were totally outmoded.  
  
Then the pizza came, and she brought in plates and napkins and set them on the coffee table. Petar stood up and took two other beers from the fridge. They ate in a companionable silence. When they were finished, she cleared up the table.  
  
"This was not a real meal, Gillian," complained Petar as he followed her into the kitchen.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
He tried it in English.  
  
"This not good food. I make you good food tomorrow, yes?"  
  
Gillian put the dishes in the sink. How could he be talking about making food for her if he already knew about the tapes? And how would she explain that Luka didn't want her around any more?  
  
"I not very good, not Luka's mother, but I make food," continued Petar.  
  
She suddenly felt how tears stung her eyes. She tried to repress them.  
  
Petar was stunned when he saw her shoulders shake, but then he came close to her. He should have seen it coming, since she had become more and more gloomy during supper. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently around. He shushed her as she sobbed, and then embraced her, hoping he was not overstepping some limit. But she buried her face on his chest and grabbed him tightly.  
  
"It's all right, it's all right. Everything is going to be fine," he mumbled, perfectly knowing that she didn't understand a thing but hoping the sound of his words would soothe her.  
  
After a while she pulled away from him.  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered as she wiped the tears from her face with her fingertips.  
  
Petar took out the handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. She smiled and accepted it. Luka's father was the perfect old fashioned gentleman. When she made the gesture to give it back to him, he just held out his hands. The perfect gentleman. She was supposed to keep it.  
  
"I'm sorry," she repeated, a little louder this time.  
  
"Not a problem," he replied. "You tired and sad. Me tired and sad. We sleep tonight. Tomorrow better, no?"  
  
She tried not to chuckle, as she realized his words could be interpreted as an invitation. She nodded.  
  
"I think I'll go now."  
  
Petar followed her into the living room.  
  
"Should we take these to the bedroom?" She asked, when she noticed the two suitcases by the entrance. "I'll help you."  
  
"No, no. This here," protested Petar, pointing at the larger, heavier suitcase. "I take that. You go sleep."  
  
She sighed, defeated.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"But you come tomorrow, no?" Petar's eyes were worried and inquisitive. "You take me to hospital?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Okay, very American," commented Petar. "What time you come?"  
  
"How about eight?"  
  
"Eight? Good, good. I make food to you."  
  
"No, Petar. You really. . . " Gillian protested. But he dismissed her protest with a wave of his hand while he took her coat from the rack and held it for her. She was forced to turn around and put it on. Then he handed her her scarf.  
  
"I make food, you take me to hospital. Deal?"  
  
She smiled.  
  
"Deal, very American," she quipped.  
  
"Yes, very American," he retorted, as he held out his hand. "Deal?"  
  
She shook it.  
  
"Okay, deal."  
  
He opened the door for her. She went out, but then she changed her mind and turned around. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.  
  
"Good night," she said in Croatian.  
  
He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.  
  
"Good night," he answered. "Sleep well."  
  
And he watched as she went down the corridor. When Gillian went out of the building, she found herself hoping she had reminded him to lock the door. 


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own them.  
  
Author's notes: This one's a little bit short and it took me long to set it up. . . BUT chapter 8 is already coming up at the end of this week!  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
"Good morning, Dr. Kovac. Did you sleep well?"  
  
Without waiting for an answer, the nurse crossed the room at a brisk pace and opened up the curtains with an energetic movement. Luka blinked in the sunlight as he considered whether her question was worth a reply. He decided against it, as he saw the artificial smile pasted to her face when she approached the bed and checked the levels of saline solution in his IV bag.  
  
"It's a fine morning, isn't it?" She continued, as she picked up the chart to have a look at the instructions on it.  
  
Jesus. She hadn't even stopped to have a real look at him, hadn't even asked if he wanted the curtains open or not. Luka just gave her the briefest nod, which was lost on her. She was now checking the water jug.  
  
"Would you like me to fill this up?"  
  
"Okay," he sighed, and off she trotted to the bathroom.  
  
Luka closed his eyes for a second, wishing he could catch up with the dream he'd been into. He couldn't remember what it had been about, but he knew it hadn't been a nightmare. And good dreams were so rare these days. . .  
  
"Would you like to have some water?"  
  
The damned nurse seemed determined to pull him out of sleep. Hadn't she just read that he had been having trouble sleeping? Luka was about to retort in some brusque way, but still his good manners got the upper hand. He was about to nod his consent when she continued.  
  
"You know, you have to have something to drink, otherwise."  
  
Well, THAT was too much.  
  
"I KNOW. I was also supposed to get some sleep. I'm sorry if it gets in the way of your rounds, but I think the question here is about what's in the best interest of the patient."  
  
She blushed, but wasn't particularly affected by his retort.  
  
"Well, Dr. Kovac, it is already eight-thirty."  
  
"And what's the problem with me having some sleep at eight thirty in the morning? It's not like I'm having to get up to work, anyway."  
  
"No, but you're supposed to get some REGULAR hours of sleep. You have to get back to some kind of normal schedule."  
  
By the Virgin! Before he could hold them back, Luka gave out some very colourful four letter words. Fortunately, she couldn't understand them, though their nature was clear enough. She dismissed them as if they had been a mere trifle.  
  
"I'll leave the glass here for you," she said, and before he had the time to reply she added, retreating from the room: "Your RN will be here shortly to clean your pin sites."  
  
Luka took the glass and was about to throw it against the closed door when he thought better of it. He'd only get another visit from Dr. Meyers, and if there was anything that galled him even more than unwanted visits from downstairs, it was the prospect of having mandatory therapy again. And Kerry was not very far from ordering it, he knew. He hoped that the two visits he'd already got from psychotherapy hadn't been her idea.  
  
Carter had been unfortunate enough to drop by immediately after Dr. Meyers's second visit, and had been forced to listen to a piece of Luka's mind about bosses, psychiatrists and private life. Carter had tried to reason with him, had reminded him of something Luka already knew: that given the traumatic nature of his injuries and his prolonged stay at the hospital, it was part of the routine to get a couple of psychiatric consults. He just had to take things easy. But Luka wasn't in the mood to listen to any kind of sensible advice. He'd told Carter exactly what he thought of his suggestions.  
  
That had been the only time Luka had seen Carter close to losing his temper with him since they had come back to Chicago. But hell, he didn't care. What did the rich American want with him, anyway? Why did he put up with Romano, Kerry, with the insurance companies for his sake? Why did he keep coming up to his room? Had he seen him as some kind of exotic charity?  
  
Tata had been coming down the corridor when Carter had stormed out of Luka's room.  
  
"What was that about?"  
  
"Nothing, Tata."  
  
A brief silence followed. Tata came close to the window and looked over the Chicago skyline.  
  
"You cannot afford to drive him away, Luka."  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
"You heard me."  
  
Tata's voice was very quiet, very calm.  
  
"I don't need his money. I don't want his money."  
  
"Was I talking about money?"  
  
"Then about what?"  
  
Tata sighed, and Luka knew he was being utterly foolish, but he wasn't going to yield. The only thing he needed right now was Tata siding up with Carter's twisted sense of benevolence.  
  
"Misla, Boric, Milan."  
  
The small list of Tata's living friends touched Luka deeply.  
  
"I was thinking about Gordana, and Tomo, and Stipe," Tata continued.  
  
Luka shuddered at the sound of the names of his own friends from Medical School. He swallowed. It took him some time to get his voice back.  
  
"He's not offering friendship. He's giving out alms."  
  
"Are you so sure about that."  
  
"What do YOU know?"  
  
Tata shrugged.  
  
"This is not about what I know. It's about what YOU think."  
  
Tata turned around and Luka felt he hated himself when he saw the curiosity and concern in Tata's gaze. He must have become a stunted sod if he elicited such looks from his own father.  
  
Then Tata handed him something he had in his hand. Luka recognized the dark green cover straightaway. The knot in his throat got tighter, and tears stung his eyes. He took the book, but didn't have the courage, or the strength, to open it.  
  
"I can bring you another one if you don't want to reread it," said Tata, perhaps too hurriedly, when he noticed Luka's agitation.  
  
Luka wiped his eyes with a hand.  
  
"Another one?"  
  
Tata smiled.  
  
"I tried to remember which were your favourites. Milan also sent you some books. One is a novel by a Czech. I can't remember his name. And he also sent a couple of books of poetry. I told him you are no poetry reader, but he said Zhivago deserved at least to own some poetry in his own language."  
  
Luka chuckled half-heartedly. That was typical of Milan, the bookworm, Tata's oldest friend. When Luka had been a teenager, one of Milan's favourite pastimes had been to drop by the house and ask Luka what he was currently reading. He would listen carefully to Luka's opinions. He never said what he thought about the books himself, but sometimes he would come by with one book or another and leave them on the couch or on the kitchen table, or wherever he had happened to stop. Neither Stjepan nor Tata touched them. Luka would find them one or two days later, and he didn't need to ask to whom they belonged. The smell of tobacco and the yellowish nicotine stains were Milan's characteristic trade marks. And the book had always something to do with whatever Luka had found interesting in some other book.  
  
That evening, contrary to what Luka had expected, Carter had dropped by his room. Their conversation had been halting and strained, but Luka had managed to make his excuses. Carter had accepted them somewhat awkwardly. Then he had spotted the book on the nightstand. He picked it up, opened it, and frowned. He had a look at the front cover and his face lightened.  
  
"Doctor Zhivago?" He asked.  
  
Luka nodded.  
  
"Gee, I read this a long time ago. In college."  
  
"So did I. Well, in Medical School."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Luka nodded, and then he saw the chance to really apologise.  
  
"There's this friend of my father that used to lend me books. He used to call me Zhivago and teased Danijela by telling her I'd find my Lara someday and then she'd get in deep trouble." Luka made a pause. "He gave us that book as a wedding present."  
  
Carter regarded the book pensively. He didn't know what to say. He had been left speechless by Luka spontaneously sharing a memory from the past.  
  
"I thought you had lost everything." He ventured and regretted it instantly when he saw Luka's expression.  
  
"Not the books. We didn't have space for them in the apartment in Vukovar, and Jasna and Marko found them particularly attractive. You should see what a toddler armed with a pen can do to a book."  
  
Luka's chuckle was not completely wholehearted, but it wasn't totally doleful, either. Carter nodded in understanding. He didn't know what else to do.  
  
"So we left them in my father's house."  
  
"But you didn't bring them with you," Carter wasn't sure he understood.  
  
Luka just shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it. And yet he wanted to talk about it. It had been a piece of himself he'd lost after Vukovar. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad to try to recover it again. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad to recognize the resentment he had harboured against literature all these years.  
  
"They survived. Danijela and the children didn't."  
  
Luka's voice had become very quiet. His words contained a kind of truth which Carter suddenly found unbearable. He sat down on the recliner and silently weighed the book in his hand. The atmosphere became thick and oppressive. And then Carter opened the book and started reading aloud. He had only read a sentence and a half and Luka was already contorting with laughter. Carter looked up.  
  
"Don't tell me you don't like my reading."  
  
It took Luka a couple of minutes to regain his breath. Carter considered tossing the book at him and asking him to read out loud to hear how it should sound, but decided it wouldn't be a good idea. Instead, he continued in a light voice:  
  
"It's supposed to be part of your healing process, you know, having somebody read to you."  
  
He picked up another passage and started again, declaiming the words with energy. Soon, Luka was begging for mercy, and Carter agreed to stop butchering Croatian. When Luka had finally wiped the tears from his cheeks, Carter allowed himself to think out loud.  
  
"So we ended up having some things in common, anyway."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Fencing. Shakespeare. Dr. Zhivago."  
  
"Abby?"  
  
Carter's sharp look made Luka regret it. It had been a low joke. He knew things hadn't been precisely smooth for Carter and Abby, but he hoped it would by then be clear that he held only good feelings when it came to them as a couple. Well, Abby knew it already. Carter wasn't very sure about it, or so it seemed. He cursed himself for being so clumsy. And then Carter flashed a smile.  
  
"Forget it. She's back into medical school. She's out of your league, Zhivago."  
  
"Okay, okay," agreed Luka, relieved. He wasn't even bothered by Carter using the nickname on him, the one only Milan had been allowed to use, and just because Luka had never been able to make him stop. "Fencing, Shakespeare and Dr. Zhivago."  
  
It suddenly struck him that Carter and he had so many cultural references in common, despite the differences in the places and the ways they had been brought up.  
  
"Talking about fencing, you still owe me a match."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"The sexual harassment seminar?" Carter reminded him. "Two out of three. We never got to the third."  
  
Luka's face lit up in remembrance.  
  
"But this time I'm going to get a helmet. I won't risk my eyes again."  
  
"Hey, you touched me first."  
  
"On the side."  
  
"It hurt like hell."  
  
Carter's recriminatory look made him give up.  
  
"All right, all right, then. With helmets," Luka acquiesced. "How about tomorrow?"  
  
Luka's tone of voice was so businesslike it made Carter look up to check if he was being serious. Now it was time for Luka to flash up a smile. He still marvelled at the kinds of things he could get Americans to take in earnest if he just attuned his voice to the right volume and speed.  
  
"Ha! Weaver would immediately confine us if she found us fencing here," exclaimed Carter suddenly, and then feared he'd touched a tender spot.  
  
But Luka just gave him a naughty smile.  
  
"Don't you think she'd join in?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, I've seen her use her crutch."  
  
Carter frowned and raised an admonishing finger.  
  
"That's not politically correct."  
  
Luka rolled his eyes and said something out loud.  
  
"That didn't sound politically correct either," remarked Carter.  
  
Luka smiled in the morning light remembering Carter's words, and then he started to loose track of his thoughts as he drifted into sleep once again. He had dozed off for a short while when he heard a low noise. He spotted a shadow standing by the threshold. He strained to focus as he tried to work out whether he was still sleeping. He wished he was. Then he could welcome her without doubts, without fearing he'd hurt her if he let her close, without having to make an effort to be cool and distant.  
  
"Gillian?" He muttered.  
  
"No, Luka. It's Abby," said the shadow, coming closer.  
  
Luka squinted and then he recognised her features. He cleared his throat and reached for the lever. He raised the bed and propped up to a sitting position, trying to hide his disappointment.  
  
Abby was touched by the helplessness and longing in his voice. So much could be said in a single word. She forced out a smile as she came close to the bed.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"Never mind. The nurse was going to do it anyway. It's better it was you," he tried to smile.  
  
"I brought you some breakfast."  
  
She put a paper bag on the side table and rolled it closer. He grinned as he recognised the name of his favourite pastry shop.  
  
"Of course, it's a banana muffin. No, I'm kidding. It's a chocolate chip one."  
  
Luka's grin widened. She still remembered. A long time ago he had told her about himself and banana muffins. When he had just arrived in America and still spoke very little English, he used to go to a pastry shop near his first working place. The first time, he had stood for a long time in front of the counter, practising the sentence one of his colleagues had taught him.  
  
"Good morning, I'd like a muffin, please," he said with a smile when he realised the girl behind the counter had begun to stare at him.  
  
"What kind?" She asked. That caught him by surprise.  
  
"Plain? Cheese? Banana? Chocolate chip?" She listed.  
  
Luka repeated the only word he had recognised in the list.  
  
"Banana, please."  
  
He got his muffin, paid for it, and walked out of the shop. The next few weeks he ended up having banana muffins for breakfast every day. A blend of shyness and distractedness prevented him from finding out the words for any other flavour. When he finally became sick of them it took him about half an hour to convince the girl in the shop that he actually WASN'T a big banana muffin fan.  
  
Abby was pleased to see his smile, and was even more pleased when he reached out for the bag eagerly.  
  
"Would you like something along with it?"  
  
"An espresso," he stated while he broke a small piece of muffin and ate it.  
  
"Decaf?"  
  
Luka wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
  
"You know, Luka."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted gruffly. "I know. No caffeine."  
  
"I can get you some tea instead," she offered.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"Decaf is fine."  
  
"All right. I'll be right back."  
  
She hurried out of the room and down the hall towards the coffee machine wondering at the speed in with which a light hearted conversation could turn into a quarrel with Luka. Well, she shouldn't be surprised, anyway. He was going through a tough ordeal, and it wasn't like he'd been doing very well before he travelled to the Congo. Back then, Abby had already got used to the fact that she would have to deal with brusque mood swings, rough jokes and even verbal innuendo when talking to him, and yet she hadn't given up on him, like all the others. Not completely, anyway. Why was it so hard to be there for him now, then?  
  
When she came back he had almost finished the muffin. It was good to see he had regained his appetite. Just a couple of days earlier Carter had been really worried about Luka's prolonged inability to hold anything down. She handed him the Styrofoam cup and sat on the recliner. She took a sip of tea. She had thought about having some coffee herself but that would have been like eating in front of a famished child. She watched him eat the last bite of muffin and sip the decaf espresso. He winced.  
  
"Ewwww."  
  
"I'll bring a cup from Starbucks tomorrow," she hurried to promise.  
  
He didn't answer straightaway. Instead, he looked into her eyes. She sustained his look and tried not to paste a smile on her face, for she knew he'd spot the artificiality in it and it would only enrage him. But it was hard not to blush under his stare while trying not to let him see the pity in her eyes.  
  
"Thank you, Abby," he said, very softly.  
  
Abby looked down into her cup, unable to sustain his unguarded look any longer. This was too much. She could cope with his brusqueness and invective, but not with this vulnerability. Then she recalled something.  
  
"I can't bring you coffee. You won't be having any breakfast tomorrow."  
  
"What?"  
  
Luka stared at her, puzzled. Abby was shocked. Had he forgotten he was getting off the contrivance on his pelvis?  
  
"The external fixator? Surgery? Tomorrow morning?"  
  
"Ah. . . yeah. That's right."  
  
She tried a bit of teasing to hide her consternation.  
  
"Gee, Luka, I didn't know you had grown so attached to it."  
  
He breathed out a sharp smile.  
  
"I'm looking forward to getting rid of it. I'd love to get out of hospital gowns and into a pair of pants."  
  
Abby was shocked again. The frame on his leg would still remain. The fractures on his hip and left leg had been so complicated and were healing so slowly that doctors were still pondering whether Luka should have another round of orthopaedic surgery. Was he so out of it that he had forgotten about that too?  
  
Luka watched her as an appalled expression surfaced in her face. He felt a cold touch, like a phantom's hand, deep inside. Had he said something wrong? Was he losing hold on reality again?  
  
"But you'll still have the frame on. . . you know. . . " She stuttered while she gestured along her own left leg.  
  
Luka breathed in relief. She thought he'd forgotten about that.  
  
"Come on, Abby. There's something called extra large clothing," he complained.  
  
It took her a while to figure that one out. But then she smiled.  
  
"Well, in your case the pants should be extra, extra, extra large. . . " 


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer and Author's notes:  
  
I don't own them, except Luka's father, which now has a different name, because I've been told that Pavle is, unfortunately, NOT a Croatian name. So. . . He's now Petar Kovac, ladies and gentlemen. However, he's the same one that was introduced to you in chapter 6.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Petar held the door of the elevator open for Gillian and then went out to the OR floor. He stopped chewing the end of his moustache when he realised he was doing it. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. It was a habit he'd tried to drop, but the lack of cigarettes here in the States had thrown him back to it. It was amazing how limited were smokers here in America. What were people supposed to do here when they needed something to channel their nervousness?  
  
He had been trying to keep a cool head the whole morning during their visit to the museum and during lunch in that small and homely restaurant, but now the anxiety that had been eating him up since he had talked to Luka on the phone early that morning was getting the upper hand. He tried not to start running towards the nurse's station, to adjust his pace to Gillian's, to wait for her to ask about Luka. After a short inquiry, she turned around.  
  
"Luka sleeps," she explained. "He gets moved to his room when he wakes up. Would you like some coffee?"  
  
"Can't we see him right now?"  
  
She shook her head.  
  
"No, he's still." she tried to find the words. They had had a conversation about it earlier in the day, she should remember it. "In Intensive Care."  
  
She smiled, proud she had learnt it, but Petar didn't smile back. He looked worried. He glanced at his watch. It was way over three in the afternoon. Luka had been out of the OR at quarter past ten that morning. The doctors had told them the removal of the frame had been a simple procedure with no complications. Now he had been down for over. five hours. Was it normal that he slept so long? Was something going wrong? Gillian noticed his concern and leant her hand in his forearm.  
  
"It is okay, Petar. Luka wakes up in some time. An hour, two hours, maybe."  
  
He cast her a doubtful look, and she was touched by how unguarded he looked. All those days, even when he had had to cope with Luka's low spirits or foul temper, Petar had been very serene, very centred.  
  
She had admired his tranquillity, had hoped she had some of the calmness and bravery he displayed. She wished she could have been able to enter Luka's room without cringing at the thought he might send her away once again. She longed to have some friendly conversations with him in those last few days she spent in Chicago. But instead, she had been shying away from him. She dropped Petar by the hospital door and always gave him some kind of excuse for not coming up with him. Either she had to arrange her flight back to Toronto, or she had some errands to run, or she had to find a parking space. She spent hours in the diner across the street and then, when she was sure Luka was already tired or Petar was hungry and looking forward to lunch, she made a fleeting appearance by Luka's room.  
  
"It's normal," she tried to explain in English. "It always takes everybody a long time to come to their senses after surgery."  
  
His forehead creased. He hadn't understood. What was the word for everybody in Croatian, now? She sighed, and tried it:  
  
"All people sleep very much after surgery."  
  
Petar smiled, but still he asked:  
  
"Sure?"  
  
"Yes. Do you want to see Luka? We can see from corridor," Gillian added.  
  
He nodded, and she took him to the door of the ICU. Petar looked through the windows. It was quite a large room, with several beds. Luka was lying on the second bed to the right. He was hooked to a myriad of machines. Petar shuddered. He couldn't get accustomed to all those strange looking monitors, though Luka had explained to him several times what they did. Blood pressure, heart rhythm, oxygen in the blood were quite normal bodily functions, but still Petar couldn't help an involuntary wince at the appearance of the devices that measured them. Luka stirred on the bed and rolled his head to the side. His eyes were half open, Petar noticed. It seemed as if he was looking at the door, but Petar had the strong feeling he couldn't see them. Luka stirred once again. One of his hands waved just above the covers and bumped against the railings of the bed, and then he made a movement as if he was going to shift on his side, but didn't quite manage it. Petar touched Gillian's forearm.  
  
"He's awake," he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.  
  
She smiled at him comfortingly.  
  
"Slowly," she said.  
  
He didn't know what she meant with that. He looked back at Luka. A nurse was now bending over him. Luka quieted under her care, but when she turned and started going out of the ICU he started moving again, restlessly. The nurse smiled at them through the windows and they stepped to the side as she pushed the door.  
  
"Are you related to Dr. Kovac?" She asked.  
  
Petar nodded, and wished she would speak a little bit slower. He had only caught Luka's title and last name.  
  
"He's coming to his senses, but it might take a while before he's completely conscious," she explained, and Gillian wished she had a better knowledge of Croatian so she could explain to Petar that everything was going fine with Luka. Petar's anxiousness seemed to be mounting with every minute.  
  
Petar looked instinctively at Gillian. She tried to find the words in Croatian, but then the nurse took a sharp breath as if she had just realised something.  
  
"Are you Gillian?"  
  
Gillian's eyes widened in surprise. She nodded. The nurse smiled.  
  
"He's been calling you." She cast a look at the nurse's station and down the corridor. "I'm not supposed to let you in, but I think it might help if you are with him for a minute. He's feeling a bit sick. I'm getting him something for it."  
  
The nurse held the door open for her, but Gillian hesitated. She didn't want to leave Petar in the corridor, but knew she had the chance to be at Luka's bedside only on account of the kindness of this nurse. She looked up at Petar, confused, but then he smiled. The nurse was letting Gillian in.  
  
"Go," he said. "I wait here."  
  
Gillian went in, and cast another dubious look at Petar when she was halfway to Luka's bed. He winked and waved at her. He watched how she came close to Luka and took one of his hands. Luka's head had just thrashed to the opposite side, so she put her hand on the side of his face and gently made him turn his head towards her. She spoke to him, and Petar saw how Luka painfully tried to focus on her features. He said something and she answered, an immense tenderness showing in her face. Gillian caressed his cheek and Luka relaxed. Petar smiled, relieved, and slowly started chewing the end of his moustache.  
  
Ten minutes later Gillian made her way out of the ICU. She felt an irrational surge of fear when she didn't spot Petar on the corridor. She walked towards the nurse's station and then she saw him sitting in the waiting area. He seemed calmer now, one of his arms resting on the back of the chair beside him. He smiled instantly and stood up.  
  
"Is Luka better?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"He sleeps again," she answered. "He was."  
  
Uh, she didn't know that one. She put her hand over her stomach and made a face. But the gesture wasn't clear enough. Petar just stared at her, bewildered. She then opened her mouth and put two fingers in it while holding his other hand to her belly. That one was much more effective. Petar burst out in a peal of laughter that made everybody in the hall turn around and stare at them.  
  
"Was he?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"But now he is good," she explained. "The nurse give medicine and he sleeps."  
  
"But now he is DOING FINE," Petar corrected. "The nurse GAVE HIM SOME MEDICINE TO HELP HIM SLEEP."  
  
She dutifully repeated the sentence. Petar wondered, for the hundredth time, at her patience and tenacity. She had learnt a lot of Croatian in the past week. Her Croatian was now, in fact, as good as his English.  
  
"I'm sure you also helped a lot," he added, and smiled when he noticed her pleased blush.  
  
Things were going much better. Gillian's spirits had lifted. The spark that Petar had seen when he had met her in the airport was back in her eyes, and not the dull, inanimate look matted by pain, which had haunted her during the last week. And Luka had been calling her. He had stopped trying to hold her at an arm's length. He had wished to talk to her, and maybe would shed that reticence, almost verging on rudeness, that he displayed towards everybody here in America.  
  
Petar still didn't fully understand what kind of transformation Luka had gone through while living in the States, but that morning, when Gillian had shown him the paintings by this American (What was his name now?) in the Art Institute, he felt he had gained a new insight into it. All the paintings were very similar to each other. They were made with an astounding neatness and simplicity, and they all depicted large, naked, brightly lit interior spaces. The surfaces in these spaces were all clean, almost devoid of objects, like Luka's apartment. And the few people that inhabited them seemed all immersed in themselves. It was as if their eyes were turned towards the inside. However, they were not peacefully concentrated on themselves; they were rather painfully locked inside.  
  
Petar had seen reproductions of some of these pictures before, but he had brushed over them. However, now, standing in front of the pictures themselves and able to appreciate their true colour and format, he was suddenly impressed with the kind of loneliness and isolation they conveyed. It was as if these people had been trying too hard to hide from the exterior and now had lost the ability to communicate with the outside. He'd been shocked by Gillian's evident adoration of these pictures. But then, he thought, if she admired the pictures that much, she could maybe understand Luka's inability or unwillingness to reach out to other people. Well, probably those two would be able to figure it out in the end, Petar wistfully thought. Despite the fact they had had so little time to talk in Africa, despite the fact they knew so painfully little about each other, despite the fact Gillian came from another country and soon would be going back to it.  
  
"Would you like some coffee?" She asked.  
  
He faked surprise.  
  
"Yet ANOTHER cup?"  
  
She chuckled. And then he saw doctor Carter coming down the corridor. Petar smiled. The young doctor had come to check on Luka. Dr. Carter smiled and shook Petar's hand, and he engaged in a brief conversation with Gillian. She had to be telling him how Luka was doing, for Dr. Carter nodded approvingly, while he rubbed his eyes with a hand. Petar noticed the dark shades under Dr. Carter's eyes, and then he took the young doctor by the elbow.  
  
"You need coffee," he stated in a way that allowed no refusal, and dragged him to the stairs, enjoying the young doctor's confusion while Gillian laughed as she followed them.  
  
When they started going downstairs, Carter put up some resistance.  
  
"Mr. Kovac, the cafeteria is on the seventh."  
  
Luka's father stopped and stared at him for a second. Carter thought he hadn't understood him.  
  
"No, no cafeteria coffee," said Petar, and Carter marvelled at how slight Luka's accent was, compared to his father's. "Real coffee. I buy you."  
  
"Uh, yeah, thank you, but my shift's not over yet." protested Carter.  
  
Luka's father glanced at Gillian, and she attempted a translation.  
  
"He works right now."  
  
Carter darted a curious look at Gillian. He hadn't got over the fact that she was learning Croatian. But he had to recognise it had been a good idea. She had been a great companion for Luka's father. Much better than the priest Kerry had contacted, it seemed. It was a shame Gillian had to go back to Montreal in a couple of days.  
  
They day before, when he had come to visit Luka, he had found Luka's father and the priest arguing heatedly in the corridor. Carter had wondered what could have got them into such a vehement discussion.  
  
Luka's father's grasp on his elbow only got a little tighter.  
  
"You escape work," he declared.  
  
"But."  
  
"You take coffee cafeteria, you take coffee out, what difference?"  
  
Carter had to laugh. Petar's logic was indisputable.  
  
"All right," he gave in. "But I'll have to get my coat."  
  
"Good," said Luka's father, but he didn't loosen his grip.  
  
They made a bee line through the ER and into the lounge without being disturbed. Carter was amazed. Petar's presence conjured every problem away from him. He wondered whether he could convince Petar to stay in the ER a bit longer. Who knew? Maybe he could even conjure Romano.  
  
"I'll come back in fifteen minutes," he told Chen at the nurse's station. "Can you cover for me?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
When they were out, Carter lifted the lapels of his coat against the cold November wind. It was the end of the month and Christmas decorations were already up. Carter shuddered in disgust. He didn't particularly like the Christmas season. During his childhood it had always been haunted by Bobby's death, and then during his youth he'd been too busy trying to avoid all the dinners and receptions Gamma would try to get him into, just to make him get involved with the foundation. Gamma. He missed her. By this time of the year he'd already have got two or three phone calls from her which he would have brushed off with annoyance. He felt a slight pang of guilt. Now he was attending the dinners and receptions, but it was too late. He shrugged and tried to push the thoughts away. Petar was holding open the door of the coffee shop and watching him with a keen eye. Gillian had already come in. Carter smiled and went past Luka's father and into the shop.  
  
They sat around a table in a quiet corner. Carter cradled his cup while he watched how Petar sipped his espresso. He smiled as he noticed that both Gillian and Luka's father had asked for the same kind of coffee. Yet another thing they had in common.  
  
"I hope you didn't have too much trouble with the priest yesterday," said Carter out of the blue, just because that was the first thing that came into his mind.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
Carter repeated his remark, suddenly noticing that Gillian had blushed and seemed very interested in the contents of her own cup.  
  
"Ah." Petar said when he managed to understand Dr. Carter's sentence. "No, I no trouble with priest. He trouble with me. Priests, they have too many principles."  
  
He put a hand over Gillian's forearm and squeezed it gently to ease her shame. Father Pritic had been scandalised when Petar had told him he didn't intend to tell Luka anything about the tapes and then he had tried to tell Luka himself. Petar had found him right before the priest made his way into Luka's room, and had stopped him. Dr. Carter happened to come by when Petar was giving father Pritic a piece of his mind about private affairs. Still, Petar was worried about the priest making another attempt.  
  
He hadn't talked about it with Gillian yet, but he thought it would be better if one of them broke the news to Luka now, instead of having a third party telling him about them. But he still didn't want to tell Luka about the tapes. He didn't want to do anything that could set a barrier between Gillian and Luka at the moment. He was only too aware of the fragility of the ties that knit those two together to want to introduce even more problems between them. Luka desperately needed somebody he could talk to, and he only seemed comfortable with Dr. Carter and Gillian. Besides, Luka would insist on listening to the tapes, and that would only depress him, if not scare him out of his wits. Deep inside, Petar knew that his own fears regarding his son's health were also part of Luka's obsessions, though it was a subject none of them would ever touch.  
  
Petar had managed to listen to about half an hour of the tapes. To listen to Luka's demons had been harder than he had at first thought. He had translated some of it to Gillian. Then he had done his best to explain to her who Danijella, Jasna and Marko had been, and about Luka's life both before and immediately after the war. She had listened carefully, and asked some questions, and then she had asked him about the years in which Luka had emigrated to the States. Petar had been surprised to notice she seemed more eager to know about how Luka had lived during the last years than about his tragic experiences during the war. She didn't seem ready to judge Luka on the basis of his loss and suffering, like most other people did, and Petar could only like it. He was also ashamed to admit he knew painfully little about what had happened to his son in the last few years. He realised, with a pang, that Luka had managed to push away not only his acquaintances in the States but also his family in Croatia.  
  
Carter lifted his eyebrows.  
  
"Well, it's their job to maintain moral principles."  
  
"Bad job."  
  
Petar's comment made Carter smile, but it also left him without words. There was an uncomfortable silence.  
  
"Are you travelling back to Montreal, then?"  
  
Gillian looked up from her coffee cup, startled.  
  
"Eh. . . huh. . . Yeah. . . On Wednesday."  
  
"Damn work, eh?"  
  
She nodded and shrugged.  
  
"I'll miss you," added Carter. "Luka will miss you."  
  
Like hell he will, thought Gillian bitterly, but bit back her words. As much as she tried to keep Luka's former words out of her mind: 'You don't have to stay. You have already expiated whatever you had to atone for,' they kept coming over and over again. Even today, when he'd been so sweet, those words had still resounded in her ears. When she had taken his hand in the ICU he'd spoken to her in French, had asked her about Chance and Chance's mother, and the clinic in Matenda, as if they were still in the Congo. He'd been disoriented and confused, so it hadn't been him that had been calling her, but the heavy duty drugs. Gillian had tried to fight her disappointment. She had tried to convince herself that the drugs were allowing him to show the feelings he didn't dare to display when fully conscious, and she had almost succeeded. Almost.  
  
She noticed Petar's kind touch on her arm again, and she looked up at him. She would miss Luka, she would miss Petar. She smiled and swallowed back a surge of sadness.  
  
"I'll keep in touch," she promised, knowing she'd most likely not keep her word.  
  
Carter nodded again.  
  
"You'd better. Luka's too much to handle by myself."  
  
His lame joke made her smile, and then she attempted to translate it to Petar. Petar shook his head and sighed.  
  
"Luka," he said. "Too much trouble."  
  
Carter and Gillian were stunned. Petar's words could be interpreted in so many ways. They feared Petar was being brutally earnest with them. But then he smiled, a naughty spark shining in his eyes.  
  
"Poor doctor Carter," he added. "Alone with Luka when Gillian and I go."  
  
Then it was Carter's turn to shake his head and give out a mock sigh. He realised he didn't know when Luka's father had to travel back to Croatia. Luka had told him Petar wouldn't get more than two weeks off work, and he'd already been in Chicago over a week.  
  
"When are you travelling back?" Petar's forehead creased. "To Croatia?" Carter added.  
  
"In seven. no, six days."  
  
"Soon."  
  
"Yeah. Damn work."  
  
Carter laughed heartily. American expressions in Petar's lips sounded truly hilarious. He glanced at his watch.  
  
"Talking about work. . ." he said while standing up and putting his coat on. "I'd better go back before my boss kills me."  
  
"Boss?"  
  
"Yeah. Robert Romano," explained Carter.  
  
"Ah, Dr. Romano. Not bad man."  
  
"Ah, Petar. If you only knew. . ." Carter complained. "Thank you for the coffee."  
  
Petar shook his hand.  
  
"You're welcome. We see later?"  
  
"Yes. I'm off at six. I'll drop by Luka's room."  
  
Petar stared at him, and Carter had to wait until Gillian had translated for him. Then he waved her goodbye and made his way out of the coffee shop. It was already dark outside. Carter sighed as he pulled up the lapels of his coat again and thought about the dreary winter that awaited them all.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Through half opened eyes he could just catch a glimpse of the succession of lights and shadows in the corridor as his gurney was rolled out of the ICU. The monotonous sound of the wheels against the linoleum floor was lulling him back to sleep. Luka knew he wasn't supposed to fall asleep again. Only God knew how long had he been out and Tata and Gillian would be waiting for him in the room, so he had to be at least partially alert. He couldn't just start rambling. They had both heard enough of his rambling. They certainly didn't need any more of it. He had to prove to them that he had a fast hold on reality. HE needed to prove to himself that he had a fast hold on reality. But the drugs that had kept him down were still working on his system and he felt as if he was comfortably floating over the gurney, and not lying on it. Besides, it didn't seem as if he had a very fast grip on his conscious processes at the moment, anyway. Why was he so certain that Gillian was waiting for him in the room? She had been shunning him the whole week, since he'd said those vile things to her. She didn't have any reason to wait for him to come out of surgery.  
  
Luka concentrated as he suddenly felt there was something he was missing. And then he remembered her in the ICU, holding his hand, caressing his cheek, talking to him in the same soothing manner she'd done in Brussels. The memory hit him like a warm wave. He felt his heart racing. Then it missed a beat. Had he imagined the whole thing? And if he hadn't, if she had really been there, what had he told her? Had the words he'd been holding back all those days slipped his mouth? After all his careful and studied attempts to draw her away?  
  
He didn't deserve her, didn't deserve to go back to the warm world he had been locked out of for years. Moreover, she didn't need this. She didn't need to bear with the mangy reject he'd become, the man that drowned everything he'd once been in endless work, in alcohol, in one-night stands. The man that lay in bed, staring emptily at the ceiling for hours on end wishing he could fall asleep; the one that feared the moment he did because then he would have to battle the demons that made him scream night after night. The one that lost himself in his past so often that there were times when he didn't even know where he was. No. She didn't need that. He was too damaged for her. It would be better for her if she headed home to her family, to her friends, to her 'wanton ways in the world', as she had put it.  
  
Besides, where had he gotten the idea that she'd ever want to deal with him? Because Luka knew she felt nothing, nothing except pity. Maybe some sympathy, but nothing else. He'd seen it in her eyes. And yet, there was that small chance that she felt something. . . Hadn't she been trying to learn Croatian? He hadn't asked her why she was doing it. He was sure he would never gather the courage to ask her, but he couldn't come round the fact she. . .  
  
"Dr. Kovac?"  
  
Luka looked up. The RN was looking at him with a worried look on her eyes.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
He nodded, and swallowed the painful knot in his throat.  
  
"Are you sure."  
  
"Yeah. I'm just. . . I'm just tired."  
  
She winked reassuringly, as she pushed the gurney into the elevator.  
  
"We'll get to your room in a second and then you'll be able to get some rest."  
  
He nodded, and attempted a smile. He took a controlled breath: in and out. And then he tried another one. He had to concentrate on immediate things and stop the wanderings of his mind. Forget both the niggling and the happy thoughts. Especially the happy ones. They were but idle illusions.  
  
The doors of the elevator opened and he was rolled out. Then, suddenly Tata was hovering over him. Luka pasted a smile on his face.  
  
"Hello, Tata. Want a ride?"  
  
Tata cocked one of his eyebrows.  
  
"I don't know. Is it good?"  
  
"Not as exciting as grandpa's tractor, but it's all right. . ."  
  
"I'm sure it's not. Especially because you can't knock down fences and kill cows. . ."  
  
Luka chuckled.  
  
"Dr. Kovac?"  
  
Luka looked up at the RN and the orderly. They were standing beside the gurney after having placed it beside the bed.  
  
"We're going to move you into bed now. . ."  
  
Luka nodded, and waited, not understanding why didn't they just do it straightaway.  
  
"Maybe your father and Ms. . ." the RN nodded towards the window. Luka's gaze followed her nod, and there she was. Jesus. With an enormous effort, he faked a polite smile. Nothing big, nothing too expressive. It only had to reach the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Gillian," he tried not to cringe at the sound of his own voice. When had he learnt to play the cold bastard so flawlessly?  
  
She stood up from the window sill and ran a hand through her hair.  
  
"Well, I'll guess we'd better wait in the corridor. . ." she whispered awkwardly as she went past the bed.  
  
Tata stood where he was, an astonished look in his eyes.  
  
"Tata, it's better if you wait in the corridor," Luka translated.  
  
Tata glared rays and thunderstorms at him. Luka's gaze darted down towards his hands. He heard as they went out.  
  
"Now, Dr. Kovac, could you try to move over? Use your elbows and your right leg. We'll do it gently. At the count of three. . ." said the orderly as he scooped him under the arms.  
  
They went out when they had settled him in bed, making sure he didn't need anything else. Tata came in.  
  
"Where's Gillian?" Luka blurted out, before he could help it.  
  
"She made up some excuse and went away."  
  
Tata's voice was sharp. Luka looked down, embarrassed. Petar watched him keenly. There was a strained silence. Petar hesitated. He wanted to give Luka a piece of his mind about Gillian, but he perfectly knew he had no right to. Oh, hell. It wouldn't do this blockhead of a son any good if he kept his mouth shut, anyway.  
  
"Luka, you really. . ." He started.  
  
"Tata, it's none of your business," retorted Luka in a rather abrasive tone.  
  
Petar bit his lip. Luka was right. It was none of his business. He'd stopped meddling in his youngest son's private life ever since Luka had fallen for Danijella, at the age of twelve. And now he was trying to lecture a grown man on something he didn't quite understand himself. He took a chair and pushed it to the side of the bed. He sat down.  
  
"You're right Luka," he whispered in defeat. "It's none of my business."  
  
He rubbed his face with his hand. He was exhausted.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The answering machine on the table by the sofa was blinking. Gillian pushed the play button while Petar disappeared in the kitchen with the groceries they had bought. The first message was in Croatian. It started with: "Tata?" so Gillian guessed it was Luka's brother. Unfortunately, Stjepan spoke too fast. She didn't understand what he said. She guessed he'd called to know how had Luka's operation gone. She'd play the message for Petar later. The second message was from her travel agent. Apparently there was some kind of trouble with her credit card. She sighed tiredly. She'd sort that out tomorrow morning. The last message surprised her.  
  
"Ms. Gillian Ronin? I'm Anne Lawrence, chief of staff of Greenwood Terrace Nursing Center. We received your CV and are interested in your services. Would you please call me back to set a meeting? My telephone number is. . ."  
  
Gillian stared at the machine for a while, before pulling a notepad and a pen from her bag. She played the message again and wrote down the number. She had sent some CVs around during the first days she'd been in Chicago, but she hadn't thought they would contact her so soon. Then he had just forgotten all about it. She sat on the sofa, the notepad on her lap, trying to make up her mind. Should she return the call?  
  
"Gillian. . ."  
  
Petar was standing in front of her with a couple of beers in his hands. She took the one he was offering her and smiled.  
  
"Is there something wrong?"  
  
"Wrong? No. . . I only thinking."  
  
"I WAS only thinking."  
  
"I WAS only thinking," she repeated as she opened her can and poured the contents into the glass.  
  
She noticed Petar staring at the notepad on her lap.  
  
"Stjepan called," she hurried to tell him. Then she hit the play button on the answering machine.  
  
Petar listened to the message with his head tilted to one side, in a gesture characteristically his. Gillian loved that gesture.  
  
"I'd better call him back," he commented when the message was finished.  
  
He watched as she erased the other two messages.  
  
"Anybody else called?"  
  
"From the travel agency."  
  
She smiled at the thought she'd come to learn the strangest words in Croatian: "travel agency", "Intensive Care Unit", "Zimmer frame", "physical therapy" were not the expressions you expected to find in a beginners language course. Well, maybe the first one. It had been in her little phrasebook, though the pronunciation key had been a little misguided.  
  
"Was it for you, or for me?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Is 'Huh' an American expression?"  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
" 'Huh'. Luka uses it all the time."  
  
Gillian smiled. Petar was right. It was one of Luka's favourite words. Well, if you could call it a word.  
  
"It is not American. I must. . . I learnt it from him. I'm sorry."  
  
"Nothing to be sorry for. . . But don't learn any more bad habits from him, okay?" Petar said with a warm smile, lifting an admonishing finger. "Was the call from the travel agency for you or for me?"  
  
"Me. I have to go tomorrow."  
  
She stood up.  
  
"I start with the food. You call Stjepan, no?"  
  
"Okay," said Petar as he watched her put her notepad away.  
  
There was something she didn't want to tell him, but he wasn't going to pry. He picked up the receiver and dialled the number while she went out.  
  
In the kitchen, Gillian put a pot with water on the stove and took the vegetables out of the plastic bags. She'd promised Petar she would cook something for him that evening, and she had chosen pasta primavera, something easy and which she knew she would succeed at. She doubted whether she could compete with his cooking. Despite what he'd told her, he was a superb cook.  
  
She washed the vegetables and started chopping them while her thoughts trailed back to the phone call. No, she wouldn't return it. There was really no point in hanging around in Chicago anymore. But then, was there any point in returning to Montreal? She had lost her job, her acquaintances were not really close friends, and her mother and her had but a distant relationship. They called every month or so to check on each other, but that was all it came to. She'd visit her mother on her birthday sometimes, but they had even started to spend Christmas and New Year by themselves, a few years back, when it became clear they really didn't enjoy each other's company. So, what was so important in Montreal? Why couldn't she try a new life somewhere else? She had just made up her mind to return the pone call when Petar stepped into the kitchen.  
  
"Stjepan sends his regards," he said.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Petar chuckled, and Gillian looked at him to find out what he found so amusing.  
  
"He wasn't happy. I woke him up."  
  
It took her a heartbeat to figure out what was so funny.  
  
"What time is it over there?"  
  
Petar glanced at his watch.  
  
"Half past two."  
  
Gillian lifted her eyebrows. It was Sunday, and Stjepan would surely have to work the next day. According to what Petar had told her, Stjepan's life was that of a very busy tradesman, wrestling with an economy in crisis, a quarrelsome wife and two teenager daughters. It sounded exhausting. No need to get phone calls from abroad in the small hours of the morning.  
  
Petar made a pout, as if he was ashamed of himself.  
  
"My children will end up rejecting me. . ."  
  
He realised he had chosen too complicated words when he saw her frown.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Stjepan and Luka. They will throw me out."  
  
Gillian's frown got deeper. Petar tried not to sigh. It was so difficult to joke around.  
  
"Stjepan and Luka will say:" He stood up straighter, and squared his shoulders, while lifting his right hand and signalling the door: "Tata, OUT!"  
  
Only then she laughed.  
  
"Don't worry, Petar," she answered. "I will. . ." She stopped when she realised she didn't know the word. "I will adopt you," she ended up in English.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
Gillian sighed, and then she used a sentence that had become a standard one between them.  
  
"We need the dictionary."  
  
Petar smiled tiredly.  
  
"I'll get it," he said, going out of the kitchen. 


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own them.  
  
Author's notes: A special thanks to Mrs. Eyre, Brandywine and Carby Luva for betaing and comments. You've been of great help scaring my writer's paranoia away!  
  
* * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
Luka fidgeted with the small slip of paper between his fingers, while he read the same sentence for the tenth time. He stopped halfway through it when he realised he wasn't understanding a word he read. He stared blankly at the page for some minutes and then he put the book face down on the bed. He'd been trying to read for over an hour and hadn't been able to get past a few pages.  
  
He flung his head backwards and looked at the ceiling. It had been just over two weeks since she had left for Montreal, over a week since he had been discharged from the hospital. He hadn't heard a word from her. Well, what did he expect, anyway? He had treated her with an unbearable aloofness the last time they'd been together. He'd thanked her for taking care of him and for keeping his father company. He'd wished her a pleasant journey and a good life, had said they could maybe get together some time in the future. If he had been her, he would have told himself he should shove his thanks and good wishes up his. . . He had in fact cursed himself more than once for those words, but only after she left. While he spoke to her, while he watched the hurt and sadness surface in her eyes, he'd been telling to himself it was better for them this way. It was better for HER this way. As for him. . .  
  
He had a look at the slip of paper he was holding in his hand. It was doubled over. He unfolded it and stared at the two telephone numbers scribbled down in a hasty handwriting. He brushed the numbers with his forefinger lightly. He had already learnt them by heart. He then cast a quick glance at the cordless phone. He lifted it and cradled it in his hand for a while. He turned it on, then turned it off.  
  
What would he say to her? That he wanted to have a friendly chat? He scoffed under his breath. After all his standoffishness? She'd never believe he called because he cared, because he honestly wanted to know how she was doing. She'd think he was only calling because he felt indebted to her. He wouldn't be able to convince her of the opposite. He knew himself. He'd never been good with words. Their conversation would turn out to be an empty exchange of polite formulae.  
  
With a sigh, he let the phone down. He doubled the slip of paper, lifted the book and put the slip between its pages as a bookmark. He glanced at the watch. Eleven thirty. Jesus. He had a whole day ahead of him. A whole, long, empty day. He sat up, trying not to grimace, and reached for the crutches. He stood up and slowly made his way out of the room. He lowered himself onto the couch, got the remote control and flickered through the channels. After a while, he turned the TV off and stared at the blank screen for a while.  
  
He cast a glance at the phone on the little table by the couch. It was the middle of the day; she would be working. He could leave a message on her answering machine. Nothing too impersonal, just a few words to let her know. . . To let her know what? Well, to let her know he'd call later, and then their conversation wouldn't be that awkward because he wouldn't catch her by surprise. Or he could ask her to return his call, so he wouldn't spend hours on end gathering the courage to dial her number again. Yeah, that was a good idea. Before he changed his mind, he picked up the receiver and dialled the number. The feeling of nervous anticipation grew as he heard it ring. He fought the urge to hang up. After the fourth ring, a female voice answered.  
  
"Allo?"  
  
Luka was stunned.  
  
"Allo?" repeated the voice.  
  
"Eh. . . huh. . . Gillian?" he stammered, and cursed himself inwardly. He sounded like an idiot.  
  
There was a short silence.  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
That wasn't Gillian's voice.  
  
"Uh. . . I'd like to talk to Gillian, please," he slurred in French.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
Luka hesitated. Had he dialled the wrong number?  
  
"Gillian Ronin?" He asked.  
  
"Oh. . . No, I'm sorry, she doesn't live here anymore."  
  
It was as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Luka ran a hand through his hair, and tried to focus.  
  
"Eh. . . How long ago?" he blurted out when he managed to find his voice.  
  
"I'm sorry, to whom am I speaking?" Asked the woman, cautiously.  
  
"Luka Kovac. I'm. . . I'm a friend of Gillian's. . ." he faltered. "Uh. . . Did she. . . Did she leave a phone number?"  
  
"No, I'm sorry."  
  
"Could I. . . Could I leave a message with you in case she calls?"  
  
"Well. . . I don't think that would be a very good idea. I don't think she'll call."  
  
Of course not.  
  
"Oh, well. . . Thank you, anyway. . ."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
And with that, she hung up the phone. Luka heard the familiar click and cradled the receiver in his hand for a while before he managed to hang up himself.  
  
She had moved shortly after she'd given him her phone number. Had she known that she was going to move when she gave it to him? She had given him her mother's phone number, too. She had said that her mother would know where to contact her. . . So, why had she given him a phone number she knew wouldn't be of any use? Was this some kind of subtle message? And if she didn't want him to get in touch with her, why had she given him her mother's phone number? Luka shook his head. It didn't make any sense.  
  
After a moment's consideration, he dropped the thought of calling Gillian's mother. He didn't want to have another awkward conversation like the one he had just held. He had always found it faintly disgusting that his accent when he spoke English or French would only add to people's instinctive mistrust. He didn't want to start explaining who he was, or why he was calling Gillian. Maybe she had put that slight barrier so he would get discouraged, and she had given him her mother's number only to keep up the appearance that she was being kind.  
  
He turned the TV on and wandered through the channels. He settled down on a football game between Manchester United and Milan. Hmm. Normally, he'd have followed the game with interest, but today he couldn't bring himself to concentrate on anything. Hell, he had to admit he hadn't been able to focus ever since. . . Ever since when? Practically since coming back from the Congo. It hadn't been that bad when Tata had been there. Tata's presence had forced him to make an effort to get a grip on himself the first few days he spent in the apartment. It had been nice to have him around.  
  
Luka had borne Tata's critiques about his furniture and decoration (or rather, like Tata had put it, his stylish LACK of decoration), and his teasing about his car and fish tank. He'd agreed both on the idea of putting some more of himself in the apartment and on selling his car (he desperately needed the money anyway). He'd been touched when Tata had unwrapped the paintings he had brought, and had insisted on having them hung up straightaway. He'd also listened carefully to Tata's endless descriptions of the paintings he'd seen in the museums and grudgingly accepted Tata's help in the most basic chores. He had even liked the long silences they had shared over the meals Tata had made, or over the games they had watched together. He now even missed the way they snapped at each other. Jesus. He missed Tata so much he was on the verge of admitting he even missed their huge quarrel the day before Tata left.  
  
It had been about those cursed tapes. Luka still couldn't accept Gillian had taped his ramblings, despite the vehement defence Tata had made of her motives. It sounded too much like the sick curiosity everybody tried hard to conceal when they learned about what he'd gone through during the war. And the fact he'd agreed to translate some of it to her, and the fact he'd told her about Vukovar and Danijella, and the children. . . Tata had really overstepped the limits. That was part of Luka's life. And she didn't have any right. . . Luka bit his lip. She didn't have any right, but it was also true he'd mused over the possibility he'd someday be able to tell her about it. Luka had been struck, like Tata had, by Gillian's apparently endless capacity to understand, to grasp, as if through a sixth sense, the power and nature of his demons. How had she guessed, back in Brussels, that he had been overwhelmed by the memories of Vukovar?  
  
Luka shook his head in disgust as he remembered the argument with his father. The worst had been that Tata had thrown away the tapes before he got the chance to listen to them. . . Tata had said he'd done it because there was no need for Luka to listen to his own incoherent babble. By God! Tata had never been so patronising. But then, Luka wasn't proud of his own attitude and arguments. There was a bitter aftertaste in his mouth whenever he thought about that discussion. True, they had made up the next day, but Luka was afraid he had opened a rift between them and he was terrified by the prospect. If there was somebody he didn't want to drive away then it was Tata, despite all his stubbornness and irritating overprotection.  
  
The key turning in the lock startled him out of his musings. A tall, sandy- haired man stood on the threshold, loaded with shopping bags.  
  
"Gee, Luka, you got out of bed!"  
  
Luka smiled sheepishly at his personal orderly and physiotherapist, Jack Tanner. Carter had hired Jack without telling Luka anything about it, and that had led him to a dispute worse than the one about psychiatrists. However, this time, no matter what Luka had said, Carter hadn't lost his temper, nor he had given in a single bit. Luka could shout and curse as much as he wanted, Carter had stated, Carter would make sure he got home help. If Luka was rude towards Jack and got him fed up with the job, Carter would hire someone else, and someone else, and someone else, until Luka gave up and accepted it. Hell, he would hire somebody to hire somebody if it was necessary. At that last argument, Luka had given up. There had been a flash of a steady resolution in Carter's eyes that made Luka yield grudgingly, despite his annoyance.  
  
He still hadn't fully come to terms with the fact that there was somebody taking care of him the whole day. He still felt himself a little. . . How to describe it? Watched? Scrutinized? He now had fully come to understand how lab rats felt. Luckily Jack's mild sense of humour had made things much less awkward and embarrassing than Luka had thought they would be. And Luka had to admit he wouldn't have been able to manage on his own. He was still weak and had too much trouble moving around.  
  
Most of the common things in his life had become very complicated now. Just having a shower or making himself a cup of coffee had turned out to be huge challenges; let alone doing the laundry or going shopping. So Jack's expertise had proven itself priceless. Not only had he taught Luka how to correctly stand up, sit down, avoid slamming the contraption attached to his leg against thresholds and furniture and manoeuvre with the crutches. He also knew a lot of small tricks that had made Luka's life much easier. He'd got a spill proof cup for him so he could take his coffee wherever he wanted; had bought cargo pants with a lot of pockets where he could store the things he would usually carry in his hands and had replaced the seam on the left leg with Velcro, so the annoying contraption attached to his leg didn't get in the way; he had wrapped the handles of the crutches in tennis racquet grip so Luka's hands were not beaten about. And he was doing his laundry, going shopping, getting his mail. . . At this point Luka was in fact wondering how would he have done without Jack's help.  
  
"Who's playing?" Asked Jack while he put the bags on the kitchen counter.  
  
"Milan vs. Manchester."  
  
"Any good?"  
  
Luka cast Jack a look of reproach. Like most Americans, Jack didn't know a thing about soccer and didn't mind broadcasting his ignorance.  
  
"They're two of the best teams in the world. It's supposed to be good."  
  
"Oh. . ." Jack wasn't, of course, too impressed with Luka's mock scorn. "And what's the score?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"The score? You know, Luka, whenever a team gets the ball in the net of the opposite team?"  
  
"Ha, ha," replied Luka unenthusiastically. But then he realised he hadn't got the slightest idea. "I don't know."  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
"Hey, look: it's only a couple of minutes since I turned the TV on."  
  
Luka's voice was maybe a bit too harsh, but then he didn't want to get those kinds of stares from Jack. He needed Jack's help, but he couldn't stand his concern. That's when he felt like a trapped hamster. Besides, he was keenly aware of the fact Jack reported to Carter every few days, and he didn't feel comfortable knowing he must have been telling him about his. . . Well, it was better to call it by its name: his depression. It took him about an hour to get out of bed every morning, if he got out of bed at all. It took him a superhuman effort of will to grasp the meaning of a paragraph, and he had to convince himself to chew and gulp down every bite of food, for he had completely lost his appetite. He knew what that meant. That kind of listlessness and him were old acquaintances. But he didn't want to get any medication, and he didn't want to talk to a shrink.  
  
He knew antidepressants would make him feel better, but was convinced, on the other hand, that they wouldn't help if he didn't manage to get himself together. And he knew he could only do it by himself. Alone. He'd done it before, and he'd do it once again. The only thing was that he couldn't figure out how. Not this time. In the past, back home, he'd had Tata and Stjepan around. When it had happened in America he'd always packed his few things and moved on. It had been his way of starting anew. But after some years, he'd come to realise he lost more of himself every time he moved, so he'd decided to stay in one place. He had focused on his work, and for a short time, he had been able to turn his mind off everything and just go through the motions of life. As long as he had filled his mind with the countless small things that had to be taken care of every day, he had managedt to keep at bay the feelings of desperation. It hadn't helped, all the same. And then, in the last few months before travelling to the Congo. . . Luka stopped the course of his thoughts. He turned off the TV, turned around in the couch and forced himself to formulate a question for Jack. Any question. Talking would do him better than staring blankly at the screen.  
  
"What did you buy?"  
  
"Everything you told me. But I also got vegetables to make you some decent meals."  
  
"Vegetables?"  
  
"Yeah. The kind of leafy green things that are stacked beside the fruit? Well, some of them are round and red. They're called. . ."  
  
"Oh, come on. What vegetables?"  
  
"Tomatoes, bell peppers, squash, spinach. . . Have you tried spinach and ricotta quiche?"  
  
Luka shook his head.  
  
"It's great."  
  
Luka forced out a faint smile.  
  
"Gee, I almost forgot. You've got mail."  
  
"More bills?"  
  
"No. A package. It looks like a book."  
  
"From Croatia?"  
  
"No, I don't think so. . . :  
  
Luka cocked an eyebrow. Now Jack had got his full attention. He watched as Jack picked up a package from the counter and tossed it to him. There was no name or address of the sender. He examined the stamps. They were American. He looked closely at the postmark. There was a blurred "Chicago" right above one of the stamps. Chicago?  
  
"Hey."  
  
Luka looked up. Jack was offering him a pair of scissors. He took them, opened the bubble envelope and retrieved its contents. He weighed the package in his hand, astonished. It was wrapped like a gift. There was no card attached to the gift paper.  
  
"Hey, congrats. Is it your birthday?"  
  
"No. . . not close to it."  
  
Luka looked into the envelope, but there wasn't any card in there either. He opened the package. It was a book, a novel by Milan Kundera. He opened it, but there was no inscription on the first pages. No card, no nothing. Who could have sent it to him? Carter? No. He would have given him the book, not send it by mail. Abby? No. She didn't like reading. Weaver? Nonsense. . . He had another look at the cover, baffled. "Ignorance" was the title. Luka smiled wryly. It was strangely appropriate to the situation.  
  
"So. . . Do you know who sent it?"  
  
Luka shook his head.  
  
"I haven't got the slightest idea."  
  
Jack shrugged, took the scissors and then went back to the kitchen.  
  
"Well, maybe if you read it you'll find out. Don't you think?"  
  
"Yeah. Maybe."  
  
* * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
Gillian considered it for a second right before the EL got to the station. Then she stood up and went out, adjusting her scarf against the cold wind. She was hungry, tired, cold and in need of company. There was no point in going back to her empty and dark apartment, where there was scarcely the most essential furniture. She had brought her clothes and some personal things with her, but the rest of her things would come from Montreal in about a week, so the place still looked barren and inhospitable.  
  
She went down the stairs and crossed the street, walked down two blocks and turned left. When her hand was on the handle of the door, she smiled to herself. She'd been there. . . five? No. Six? Yeah, six evenings since she'd started working, a couple of weeks ago. That meant she'd been there three times a week. But then, she felt as if the people in this place had adopted her already. She had barely crossed the threshold when she heard the hearty welcome.  
  
"Gillian!" Roared Anto from the other side of the little restaurant, where he was waiting at one of the tables. "Welcome! Mama! Gillian's here!" He called in an even louder voice.  
  
An ample form burst out of the kitchen door, wiping her hands in her apron. Two seconds later, Gillian found herself drowning in Marija's embrace and fighting for breath. Then a pair of kind hands held her cheeks while Marija examined her.  
  
"Welcome, Gillian! Jesus, child! You're really cold. Take off your coat and sit down there. You need something warm. How about a nice plate of soup?"  
  
As always, Gillian had to make an extra effort to follow her fast words. It didn't matter how many times Anto and his wife, Bojana, told Marija that she had to speak slowly so Gillian could understand her. She kept on rattling around at an astounding speed. She had been delighted to know that at least one American was willing to learn her mother tongue, so she had decided on improving Gillian's skills as fast as she could. Besides, that had made her fall for Gillian from the start. Well, not from the start, really.  
  
Petar had taken Gillian to that restaurant the last evening she spent in Chicago before travelling to Montreal to pack up. They had had a quiet dinner together, Petar indicating her the best dishes on the menu, ordering the best wine of the house and keeping his voice low when they spoke together. He'd engaged in a short conversation with the owner of the restaurant, but had kept his distance, making that dinner as friendly and intimate as he could, trying to show his appreciation towards her. He'd been so kind, so gentle, that Gillian had felt as if she'd been invited to dinner by her father.  
  
When she had returned to Chicago she had come back to the restaurant to commemorate that last evening, but hadn't dared to speak to the owner in Croatian. It had only been during her third visit that she'd ventured a faltering and probably incorrect sentence. That had triggered it. Immediately, Anton, Bojana and Marija had gathered around her, had started a friendly chat that lasted until closing time, had served her the speciality of the house, had served her a couple of glasses of rajika to celebrate and had toasted to her health. They had also bombarded her with questions, but as soon as they noticed the sadness in her voice and the vagueness of her answers, they had dropped asking for the reasons why she'd decided to learn Croatian. The next times she'd been there, Anton and Bojana had avoided the subject tactfully and had, instead, asked her about how was she settling down and whether she liked the city and her new job. Marija dropped some caustic comments on the stupidity of men which elicited some reproachful looks from her son and daughter-in-law, but soon even her comments, peppered with light-hearted teasing, had become part of the chat, which was one of the reasons that made Gillian come back to the restaurant almost every other evening. Now she always sat by the counter and even helped in small chores like folding napkins or organising glasses. She often wondered at the speed in which she'd been welcome in Anton's, Bojana's and Marija's small circle.  
  
Bojana stuck her head out of the kitchen and gave her a wink.  
  
"Hi, Gillian! I'll be there with you as soon as I finish here."  
  
Gillian gave her a big smile, but didn't have time to figure out a reply before Marija landed a plate full of soup in front of her and ordered her to eat. Gillian took the spoon and attacked the scalding soup, knowing that if she hesitated a single second Marija would either start complaining Gillian didn't like her food or would start fidgeting around her, stating that she was too thin to be healthy. Soon afterwards, Anto came to the counter and greeted her properly, with a peck on the cheek. He served a glass of beer for her and set it on the counter. He served the drinks for the people at the table and stuck his head in the kitchen to make the order. He went away with the drinks, while Gillian took a little break with the soup. Marija and Bojana would be busy in the kitchen preparing the courses the next few minutes, so she could take it easy. Anto came back to the counter, and served himself another glass of beer.  
  
"So, how is it going with your working permit?"  
  
"Good. My working place sponsors it. They say I get it in short time."  
  
Anto raised his eyebrows. All of his family had had great trouble getting a working visa and immigrating to the States. Just to get an audience at the American embassy back home had taken months. For him, it was almost unbelievable that a Canadian could get her working papers in order in a matter of weeks. Gillian had said that Canadian nurses were very appreciated in the States; they had a very good training. But still. . . Oh, well. He was glad at least somebody had no trouble dealing with immigration. And he was glad it was Gillian.  
  
"Good for you. When do you have your appointment?"  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Your appointment. With immigration."  
  
"In two days, I think."  
  
"Let me know. I'll come with you."  
  
Gillian looked at him disapprovingly.  
  
"Anto, I can go alone."  
  
"I know, but it's always so boring to stand on that line. . ."  
  
Gillian smiled, and Anto was glad she'd caught his joke. Bojana called him from the kitchen and he went to get the dishes. Gillian attacked her soup again, and shuddered when the door opened and a gust of cold wind let itself in, together with some more customers. Anto went out of the kitchen and greeted them while he made his way to the other table, loaded with the entrees. They were Croatian, and apparently they knew Anto well. Bojana came out of the kitchen and winked at Gillian again. She went round the counter, greeted the new customers, and led them to a table at the back of the local among laughs and comments Gillian didn't understand. Gillian finished her soup and leant back, giving out a satisfied sigh. She had another sip of beer, while she calmly watched Bojana interact with her other customers. Both Anto and Bojana were very sociable, but they had somehow felt Gillian wasn't really eager to get to know a lot of people. They hadn't made any effort to introduce her to their many acquaintances, and the few times Marija had boasted Gillian's will to learn Croatian in front of other customers they had reservedly hushed her. Gillian was thankful for that. She craved their friendship, but she wasn't ready to enlarge her circle of acquaintances yet. Bojana came back and smiled at her, before giving her a peck in the cheek.  
  
"Now I can finally greet you properly," she said.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Now I can really say hello to you," she tried simpler words for Gillian.  
  
"Ah. . . Yes."  
  
"Would you like some more soup?"  
  
Gillian put a hand to her stomach.  
  
"No, thank you. I've already had enough," she said, and then she smiled when she realised she already knew every sentence related to food and food related states.  
  
"Mama won't be of the same opinion."  
  
Gillian laughed. Part of her improvement in food vocabulary was undoubtedly due to Marija's insistence on fattening her up. Bojana took Anto's glass from the counter and had a sip of beer.  
  
"When do you have your appointment with immigration?"  
  
"In two days."  
  
"Do you want some company?"  
  
"For the line?"  
  
Bojana nodded, as she started serving the drinks for her customers.  
  
"Anto say he comes with me."  
  
"Anto SAID he WOULD COME with me," Bojana corrected, and Gillian repeated the sentence.  
  
She was thankful Bojana would correct her. Anto and Marija often taught her new words, but they never corrected what she said. They insisted that Gillian first had to learn enough words and then she'd have to learn how to use them properly. Gillian wasn't too sure of the accuracy of their theory, since both of them spoke quite a broken English despite the years they had spent in the States.  
  
"It's incredible how fast you're going to get your papers. . ." Bojana commented.  
  
"I think it is for my boss sponsors my visa."  
  
"Still. . ."  
  
Anto came back to the counter only to be sent back to the table with the drinks. Bojana went to the kitchen while Gillian grabbed an ashtray from the other side of the counter, and lit a cigarette. She knew the entire conversation that evening would turn on the astounding speed at which she'd got her working visa in Canada, and how fast she was going to get the rest of her working papers in order. Anto, Bojana and Marija would tell her again about how difficult it had been for them to get the same documents, and they would start telling horror stories about endless lines and absurd requirements in official offices. She knew the stories were true. She wondered how Luka had managed to get through the whole process. It must have been hard. Maybe it was easier for a doctor to get a working visa, but still, Anto, Bojana and Marija had, at least, been together through the whole thing while Luka. . .  
  
She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She had resolved she wouldn't think about Luka after their last conversation at the hospital. He'd been so. . . distant, so closed within himself it had been impossible to fool herself any more. Whatever she'd come to feel for him while she and Carter had brought him over from the Congo was but her own crazy, sick kind of love. She had given him her and her mother's phone number so he could get in touch with her if he wanted, but he'd thanked her in such a polite way it had made clear that he hardly expected to hear from her in his life. So she had decided, there and then, to leave him alone. She had said good-bye, allowed herself to hold his hand one last time and to give him a kiss on the cheek, and had turned around and walked out of his life. Well, at least that's what she'd told herself that day. . .  
  
Marija burst out of the kitchen with a plate of food in her hand and set it in front of Gillian. She looked harshly at the cigarette and said something about how smoking ruined the taste of good food, or at least that's what Gillian thought she said.  
  
"Marija, I've already finished. . ." Gillian started protesting.  
  
"You have to eat, child."  
  
And with that decree, she disappeared again into the kitchen. Gillian sighed resignedly, took a deep drag of her cigarette and then slowly put it out. She took the fork and started eating, feeling herself strangely at home.  
  
* * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
Shelly had noticed the tall, good-looking man lingering in front of the window, pretending he was deeply interested in the books displayed behind it, long before he made up his mind and entered the bookshop. She had, however, plenty of time to feign she was busy checking some bills before he made it to the door and inside, for he was on crutches. When she heard the bell clinging she lifted her gaze just slowly enough to allow him to come in without feeling he was being observed.  
  
"May I help you?" She asked with her kindest tone of voice. It had taken him more than ten minutes to decide to come in, and his shyness had touched her.  
  
He cringed a bit, and then he answered.  
  
"Uh, eh. . . Yes, ah. . . well. I was. . ."  
  
Although he hadn't said a complete sentence yet, Shelly already spotted he had an accent. Eastern European, perhaps?  
  
"I was wondering. . . This book was sold here, wasn't it?"  
  
He took a book out of the pocket of his long, black winter overcoat and held it out for her. Shelly took it. "Ignorance", a novel by Kundera. She opened it and glanced at the mark impressed on the first page, where the name and address of the bookstore stood.  
  
"Yes, it was sold here," she handed him the book back.  
  
"I'd like. . . I'd like to know if you knew who bought it. I got it as a present, but I guess the sender forgot to put the card in the envelope. . ." The further he went, the more unsure of himself he seemed.  
  
Shelly shook her head.  
  
"I'm sorry. We don't keep record of our customers."  
  
He bit his lip and looked down. His shoulders slouched in defeat. But then he seemed to get another idea, and he looked into her eyes again. His gaze was intense, bidding.  
  
"Do you perhaps remember who did you sell it to? It must have been a couple of weeks ago. . . You see," he continued hastily as he noticed her hesitation. "I'd really like to thank the person that sent it to me. . . I enjoyed reading it."  
  
Shelly doubted for a second, but then she decided against describing the petite chestnut-haired woman for him. She had to protect the privacy of her clients.  
  
"I'm afraid I can't. There's a lot of people coming through the shop, you know. . ."  
  
For a second, she feared he wouldn't take in her lame excuse. The bookshop was little, and it was evident Shelly would remember most of her clients. But he didn't say anything for a while. He looked down again and seemed so dismayed Shelly was about to gainsay herself and tell him. . .  
  
"No, of course you wouldn't," he whispered without the slightest trace of irony in his voice.  
  
He put the book back into the pocket of his coat with great care.  
  
"Thank you, anyway," he said quietly.  
  
And not daring to look at her, he turned around and went out of the shop. 


	10. Chapter 10

Susan was sitting in her little Volkswagen, her hands on the steering wheel. How long had she been there? She watched the street where she had parked. It didn't seem too secure. The whole neighbourhood wasn't the safest in Chicago. Would her wipers or her headlights get stolen if she left the car there? Wouldn't it be better if she just drove away and came tomorrow using the EL?  
  
"Oh, come on. It's just a short visit," she chided herself as she gathered her purse and the potted plant.  
  
She knew she wasn't particularly worried about the destiny of her wipers or headlights. She'd dropped by Luka's room at the hospital twice, but both times had been kind of awkward. The first time had been easier, though. Luka had been with his father, had introduced them, and then had spent the whole half hour translating from English to Croatian and back as Susan and his father embarked in light-hearted bantering. When Luka had refused to translate some too personal remarks, Pavle had done his best to get Susan to understand him in a broken English, and the three of them had had a good laugh at his attempts.  
  
The second time had been much harder. Luka had been alone and in a sulky mood. Susan's dry wit had brushed over him, and after some uncomfortable minutes she had just fled, feeling guiltier than if she hadn't been there at all.  
  
And now it had been over two weeks since Luka had left the hospital. Susan knew that apart from Carter and Abby, nobody from County had dropped by. They all believed they had fulfilled their duty by visiting him at the hospital. When Susan had asked about him, Abby had voiced her concerns. He was lonely and missed his father and was falling fast into the dark mood he'd been into before travelling to the Congo.  
  
Susan pressed the buzzer, and waited. She was relieved when some minutes passed without any answer. She was about to turn around and head back to her car when a male voice resounded in the device.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Luka?"  
  
There was no answer for a while.  
  
"I'm looking for Luka Kovac."  
  
The door buzzed.  
  
"Come in," said the voice.  
  
When she reached Luka's door, there was a tall man standing on the entrance.  
  
"Is this Dr. Kovac's apartment?"  
  
The man nodded.  
  
"And you are. . . " blurted Susan, before she could help herself.  
  
The man held out his hand.  
  
"Jack Tanner. I'm Dr. Kovac's therapist."  
  
She blushed.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . . "  
  
"Never mind, It's all right," said the man with a wink. "And you are. . . "  
  
Susan smiled.  
  
"Susan Lewis. I'm one of Luka's. . . of Dr. Kovac's colleagues. I've come. . . you know. . . "  
  
She lifted the plant slightly and smiled.  
  
Jack's smile widened. He opened the door.  
  
"Please come in," he said heartily. "We're in great need of plants."  
  
Susan chuckled as she entered. She glanced around the living room. Luka was not to be seen.  
  
"I thought the place would look like the Amazon jungle by now," she said, leaving the pot on the table by the door.  
  
"Not really," answered Jack as he took her coat.  
  
He looked at her squarely.  
  
"Actually Luka hasn't had many visitors, you know."  
  
Instead of faking surprise, she just nodded.  
  
"Do you think I'll end wearing the plant on my head when I head for the door?" She asked playfully.  
  
"I won't leave it within his reach, I promise."  
  
Susan chuckled again. Jack pointed at the hall, which started right across the living room.  
  
"He's down there. First door to the left."  
  
"Aren't you going to. . . " Susan nodded emphatically towards the hall.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"What if he doesn't want to see me?"  
  
"It really doesn't matter."  
  
"You'll get fired," she admonished.  
  
"He can't fire me," retorted Jack with a smile. "Dr. Carter hired me, not him."  
  
She rolled her eyes.  
  
"Oh, great. So you're letting me go alone into the lion's den," she sighed, while she crossed the living room.  
  
She knocked on the door and then turned the knob. Luka was lying flat on his back on the bed. He was wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of Cargoes. A funny patterned comforter partly covered his legs.  
  
He rolled his head to see who it was and a gleam flashed briefly in his eyes. Susan tried to spot what it was. Annoyance? Glee? Surprise? She grinned nervously.  
  
"Uh. . . hey."  
  
"Hello, Susan," he answered, his voice emotionless.  
  
He then raised on one elbow and pulled himself up in the bed. He grimaced slightly. Out of a sheer impulse, Susan hurried to prop a pillow behind his back, but she stumbled on a pile of books on the floor. She fell on her knees by the bed, her face very close to Luka's. They were both shocked still for a second. Then she pulled away. She cast a rapid glance at him and then had a look around, embarrassed. When she lowered her sight she spotted the books on the floor.  
  
"Gee, I'm sorry, I hope I haven't damaged any of these. . . " she knelt again and started piling them up. "Why don't you leave them on the nightstand?"  
  
She didn't get an answer. She looked up again and met his gaze. His expression was wary. His eyes bore inquisitively into hers.  
  
"Susan, why did you come?"  
  
His straightforwardness abashed her and left her at a lack for words. She looked down again and started gathering the items from her bag, which were scattered on the floor.  
  
"Uh, eh. . . well. . . I was wondering. . ." She stuttered, while she gathered her mascara and her car keys.  
  
Suddenly she spotted the video she'd rented the day before and she got an idea.  
  
"I was wondering whether you had plans for the evening."  
  
Luka smiled ruefully.  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
He sounded so serious she couldn't help wondering what they would be. She darted him another look.  
  
"To stare at the ceiling."  
  
She lifted her eyebrows. Irony was more than evident in his voice but Susan didn't know how to interpret it. Was it directed against her? Against his illness? Against himself?  
  
"I thought you were supposed to be sitting up after all those weeks of lying down. In fact. . ." She remembered what she was going to do when she stumbled down, and reached for the pillow. "I was going to help you with this. . ."  
  
He leant forward so she could stuff the pillow behind his back. He winced a little.  
  
"PT is killing me," he grunted, as he leant back.  
  
Susan smiled. She was pleased to see him accepting her help and noticing they had somehow managed to spring over the first moments of awkwardness. She stood up and got another pillow for him to lean his head on.  
  
"Well, that's what it is supposed to be: a slow and painful death," she said, handing the pillow to him.  
  
She sat on the edge of the bed as he put the pillow behind his own head.  
  
"Thank you, Susan. You give so much comfort."  
  
The ironic undercurrent was still there, but now it was milder, and definitely not directed against her.  
  
"I know, I know. . . "  
  
There was a pause and Susan wondered whether they would be able to keep up the light mood. But he didn't say a word and silence started to get uncomfortable. She sighed.  
  
"Oh, well, since you have such interesting plans I guess watching a movie's not going to compete with them. . . "  
  
"Which movie?"  
  
She tossed him the video she had gathered from the floor. She had in fact watched it the night before, and had been meaning to return it to the video store that same evening, after having stopped by Luka's.  
  
He had a look at it.  
  
"Sense and Sensibility?" He read out loud, disbelievingly.  
  
"I didn't know what kind of movies you like, so I just chose something I would like to see."  
  
"Well, Susan, THAT was very thoughtful of you. . . "  
  
He had another look at the cover.  
  
"Jane Austen. Her novels any good?"  
  
"I wouldn't know," Susan shrugged. "Haven't read any of them."  
  
She had another look at the pile of books.  
  
"In fact, I'd say you would be more likely to have come across a book of hers. . . " And before he had the chance to reply, she added. "I never thought you read so much, Luka."  
  
"Just something I've picked up again lately," he explained warily.  
  
She noticed one lying on the bed by him. There was a slip of paper trapped in its pages, serving as a bookmark. Luka had apparently read three fourths of the book already. She reached for it, and he made a weak movement to stop her, but didn't go all the way through, as if he didn't dare. She noticed it however, and felt she was trespassing. Nonetheless, she had a look at the beautiful golden letters engraved on the cover.  
  
"Doctor Zhivago?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Beautiful story," she commented handing the book back to him.  
  
"Have you read it?" He asked in surprise, and she chuckled.  
  
"No, but I've seen the movie. . . " She tilted her head to one side, considering it. "In fact, I've seen two versions of it. There was one filmed in the nineteen sixties, I think, and one that's more recent. I saw it a couple of months ago, by the way. Nice sets."  
  
He shook his head, smiling.  
  
"Hey, what did you expect? I come from the country with the world's biggest film industry."  
  
"India?" Luka cocked one of his eyebrows. "What?"  
  
"I would have never guessed you came from India."  
  
"What?"  
  
"They produce more movies than the States."  
  
"Are you kidding me?"  
  
"No, I'm just playing the idiot savant," quipped Luka.  
  
Susan laughed. There was another pause.  
  
"Bad choice, wasn't it?" Asked Susan with a grimace, stretching out her hand to get the video back. Of course, he wouldn't want to see a period film with her. Where had she got that idea from?  
  
It wasn't just that the film was more of the kind one would rent when one planned a slumber party. Luka had always been reserved about his private life, and they had always had a distant relationship at work. The closest they had come to each other had been rude teasing about their sexual slips over in the ER. He hadn't expected her to come, and he hadn't been particularly pleased to see her. A short visit and a little small talk was all that it was supposed to be. She was figuring out what she could say to him: glad to see you're doing better, hope you join us soon, when he took the video out of the box.  
  
"Why don't you put it in the VCR?" He asked, giving her both the video and the remote control.  
  
Susan stood up and glanced around. The TV and the VCR stood on a rolling stand by the foot of the bed. She turned the VCR on and pushed the movie into the slot.  
  
"I'll check our supplies. There should be some beer in the fridge," he added. "There might be some pop corn too, but I'm not so sure about it. . . "  
  
She heard him rumble around with something, and turned around. He had shoved the comforter to one side and was sitting on the side of the bed. He was trying to get to the crutches, which were leaning against the wall. Susan couldn't help staring at the orthopaedic frame that stuck out from the side of his left leg, through a large opening in his pants. Gee, that must hurt, she thought. She came close to the bed waving her hand dismissively.  
  
"Hey, why don't you let me go to the kitchen and you can get the honour of rewinding the video in the meantime."  
  
But she was a little bit too late. He'd already grabbed the crutches and had stood up. He looked down at her from the advantage of his height.  
  
"Gee, Susan. First you scold me for lying in bed and then you don't want me to get out of it."  
  
"Hey, I'm just suggesting that you SIT UP and stare at the ceiling. Know how much you like that," she retorted.  
  
He grinned and shook his head, but wheeled round and headed for the door, anyway. She tried not to stare as he slowly made his way out. When he had got to the threshold, he looked back at her.  
  
"If you're so eager to help you can get a couple of cushions from the sofa," he suggested.  
  
Susan studied the remote control and pushed the rewind button, and then headed for the living room. She could listen to Luka and Jack talking quietly in the kitchen. She picked up some cushions and a blanket from the sofa and went back to the room. She piled the cushions against the headboard and sat down, on the side that was farthest from the door. She was flickering through the channels when she heard Luka and Jack coming back. They were still talking to each other.  
  
". . . the story about the couch being too low for your leg was but a weak excuse to get girls into your room." Jack was saying. He obviously didn't think she could hear them.  
  
Susan smiled ruefully to herself. As if Luka had ever had trouble getting women into his bedroom, she thought. She made an effort to wipe the smile from her face, since Luka was already standing on the threshold. Luka was carrying a six pack, holding it from the plastic rings with one of his fingers while he manoeuvred with his crutches. Jack held a big bowl of popcorn. Susan leant over in the bed and took the beer from Luka while Jack left the bowl on the nightstand. He helped Luka to sit down and left the crutches where Luka could reach them.  
  
"All right," he said, straightening up again. "So I'll see you tomorrow, Luka. Nice meeting you, Susan."  
  
"Aren't you staying?" Asked Susan, and then she bit her lip.  
  
She hoped her voice hadn't sounded too eager. She was, in fact, not very comfortable with the idea of spending the evening in Luka's company. She had proposed the movie out of an impulse, a feeling that was partly guilt and partly fear of being told she'd dropped by just to ease her own conscience. But now she feared that what she had really done was to prolong an uncomfortable visit.  
  
"I've seen that one already, but thank you. See you tomorrow at eight, then," he added, addressing Luka.  
  
Luka nodded. Jack was about to turn around, when he stopped on his tracks, as if he'd suddenly remembered something important.  
  
"Eh, Susan. . . " he said, turning around. "There are some sandwiches in the fridge. Can you just make sure he eats something before he goes to bed?"  
  
Susan didn't get to answer. Before she could utter the slightest word, and before Jack could duck his head, Luka had thrown him a cushion. Susan decided she liked Jack.  
  
"Well, yeah, I'll try, though I haven't had much practice feeding toddlers, you know. . . " She received a blow from a pillow and giggled. She took a cushion from behind her back and hit Luka back.  
  
Jack watched their battle from the threshold, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth. He hadn't seen Luka so relaxed in the couple of weeks he'd worked for him. He marvelled at what a visit from one of his colleagues could do to raise his spirits. He shook his head.  
  
"Well, that's doctors for you," he commented as if to himself while he picked the cushion from the floor, and threw it back on the bed. He hurried out of the room right before another pillow hit him.  
  
"Good night!" He screamed, making his way through the living room.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
Susan cast Luka an oblique glance as the credits rolled. He was looking at the screen, leaning against the cushions stacked behind him, apparently at ease, as he'd been during the whole movie. She'd been checking on him from time to time, to make sure he wasn't getting bored, but he had seemed to enjoy the film. He rolled his head towards her.  
  
"That was a good movie," he commented, and she was surprised to see the openness of his smile. "Had you seen it before?"  
  
She nodded, as she stopped the movie and turned off the TV. She had to make an effort to stand up and take out the video from the VCR. It was hard to leave the warmth of the blanket she'd tossed over her legs. She padded over to the TV and crouched by it.  
  
"Would you like something to eat? Jack's sandwiches are really good."  
  
She turned around, surprised by the offer. Luka had turned on the reading lamp by the head board and was squinting in the sharp light. The warm smile was still shining on his face. She nodded emphatically.  
  
"All right. Let's go, then," he said, leaning forward.  
  
"Wouldn't you like to stay here? I can bring in the sandwiches," Susan offered.  
  
"We can sit in the kitchen," Luka retorted.  
  
"I thought you wouldn't like to part from your comforter, Linus."  
  
Susan couldn't help alluding to the garment with a mischievous smile. The small white planets, moons and stars on the navy blue background were a bit childish, and made a sharp contrast with the rest of Luka's furniture. She thought that he wouldn't understand the reference to Charlie Brown or that he'd try to answer to her teasing, but he did neither. Instead, his reaction was astonishing. He looked down and his smile turned somewhat sad as he passed the palm of one of his hands over it as if in a slight caress. His eyes were deep with longing when he looked up at her.  
  
"It's kind of a keepsake," he said, very quietly.  
  
Then he cleared his throat, pulling up his defences once again.  
  
"We'll be better in the kitchen. And I don't want you scattering crusts on my bed. . ."  
  
"Oh, come on. . ." Somehow Susan managed to keep up with the bantering. "Do you really believe me capable of . . ."  
  
"Yes, and much, MUCH worse," retorted Luka.  
  
"Come on," he said, as he stood up, got an empty beer can from the night stand and tossed it into the empty popcorn bowl. "You'll have to carry that into the kitchen."  
  
"Do you expect me to clean up after what you've just said?" Asked Susan, her hands on her hips.  
  
Luka winked.  
  
"The only good thing about being an invalid."  
  
"Hm. . . I'm sure you've already found out many other ways of taking advantage of the situation," she retorted, and heard him chuckle as he slowly made his way out of the room.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
"So, how's Chuck doing?" asked Luka out of the blue.  
  
Susan had to gulp down a bite of her sandwich before she answered. They were sitting face to face in Luka's kitchen, around the little table, and had been sharing the food in companionable silence.  
  
"Busy."  
  
"Busy?"  
  
"Night shifts," Susan explained and gave her sandwich another bite.  
  
Luka raised his eyebrows.  
  
"That's something I don't miss from County," he commented.  
  
"When are you coming back?" Asked Susan through a half filled mouth, and was surprised at the fact that it didn't sound like a mere politesse. Their watching a movie together and their sharing supper had already broken the ice barrier she'd thought would be insurmountable.  
  
Luka didn't have to think it over before he answered:  
  
"In nine days."  
  
He had a sip of coke. Susan gawked at him.  
  
"Are you counting the days?"  
  
Luka shook his head, cracking a smile.  
  
"No, not really."  
  
"Gee, I thought you'd gone mad," said Susan, shaking her head. Then she thought it again.  
  
"But that's right before Christmas. . . Aren't you going to take some days off?"  
  
"Me?"  
  
Somehow, Luka seemed astonished at the possibility of taking time off during the holiday season, and only then Susan came to think he usually ended up stuck in the ER during Christmas and New Year. She was astounded to realise that he must have done it on purpose. Moreover, she was stunned by the fact she'd never thought about it during all the years they had worked together.  
  
"Maybe we'll end up covering the ER together during Christmas," She winked.  
  
"Are you on on the 24th?" Asked Luka.  
  
Though he didn't seem bothered by the prospect of working through the holidays, he was dismayed to know Susan would have to do so.  
  
"Yeah. It doesn't matter, though. Chuck is on as well."  
  
"And what about your family?"  
  
Susan smiled wryly. It was incredible they'd worked together that long and knew each other so little.  
  
"Do you want to make my Christmas miserable or what?"  
  
She regretted the harshness of her words as she saw him draw back.  
  
"We don't get along, Luka," she explained. "I used to spend Christmas with my sister when she wasn't high on something. This year she's going to her husband's family, together with my niece."  
  
"You have a niece?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He nodded, a distracted smile playing on the corners of his mouth. She wondered what was he thinking about. Then she remembered Abby saying something about Luka having a brother.  
  
"How about you?"  
  
"How about me what?"  
  
"Nieces? Nephews?"  
  
"Nieces. Two."  
  
"How old?"  
  
"Teenagers," Luka shook his head. "A pain in the ass."  
  
"Really?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"How come?"  
  
"They had a big time making fun of me three years ago. They hadn't seen me in almost ten years and then the best thing they could think of was to ape my gestures and my accent. It was okay at the start, but after two weeks. . ." He shook his head.  
  
Susan's forehead creased.  
  
"Your accent?"  
  
Luka smiled.  
  
"My American accent."  
  
She stared at him, bewildered.  
  
"I have lived too long in the States, Susan. I have a weird accent when I speak Croatian. Besides, all the day-to-day expressions I use are now outmoded. They are ten years old."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Luka nodded while he saw how a smile crept across Susan's face as her confusion gave way. It wasn't strange she was surprised at knowing he'd picked some American traits. She surely thought about him as what he was for most Americans: the Eastern European. Luka considered the paradox once again: in the States he was the Croat; in Croatia he was the American. A foreigner in both places. He shrugged mentally and had the last bite of his sandwich. He chewed it with relish and gulped down, as he looked at the crumbs on his plate. He pressed some of them with his index and then took it to his mouth as he gathered the courage to phrase the question he had wanted to ask Susan during the last half hour. He breathed in.  
  
"Susan. . ."  
  
She looked up.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Her open look made him hesitate. No, she couldn't have sent him the book. She'd been surprised to know he liked reading, and she'd told him she didn't. He believed her. It couldn't have been her. Whoever had sent it, had a knowledge of books and a shrewd sense of what could have been appropriate for him. Kundera's novel, about exile, loneliness and not being able to go back home or rather, to go back in time, had been peculiarly fit to his situation.  
  
Luka had started reading it without too much interest, but after the first few pages he'd been simply absorbed by it. He had read it in a couple of days, and then he had read it once again. It had given him some kind of new insight into his own life. The characters on the story were lonely, and they were all strangers in strange lands, as he was. Some of them were mourning something they'd never get back, just as him, and yet they somehow had managed to come to terms with themselves.  
  
Moreover, that novel had brought him back the keenness to read and, what was more surprising, his ability to concentrate. When he had tried to read another book, namely another novel by Kundera, the one Milan had sent with his father, he'd but eaten it in three days. And then he'd made the attempt with "The Death of Ivan Ilich", and had enjoyed it enormously. Now he was rereading "Doctor Zhivago". Gone were the days in which he'd stare listlessly at the page for hours.  
  
"Luka?"  
  
Susan's eyes were studying him with worry. He got himself together.  
  
"Eh. . . Would you like something else to eat?"  
  
She smiled, but concern didn't fade from her eyes. Luka cursed his clumsiness with words. He should have thought about something less commonplace to ask her. About her niece, maybe?  
  
"No, I'm fine. . ." Susan faltered, and then she gathered enough courage to ask. "Are you all right?"  
  
Luka made an uneasy gesture, as if the question embarrassed him.  
  
"Huh. . . yeah, sure."  
  
She decided not to press it further. They had really had a nice evening, there was no need to ruin it. But now, some kind of awkwardness had sprung up between them, and she didn't know how to get around it. After a strained silence, she took the plates and stood up.  
  
"Let me do the dishes," she said.  
  
"Leave them in the sink. Jack will do them tomorrow."  
  
She raised her eyebrows.  
  
"Yet another advantage of being handicapped?"  
  
He chuckled and nodded. She smiled, relieved.  
  
"All right. I'll profit from that."  
  
She stifled a yawn.  
  
"I guess I'd better start my way home."  
  
Luka glanced at his watch. It was half past eleven. He wondered at how fast time had passed that evening.  
  
"Do you want me to call you a cab?"  
  
"No, I'm driving. I hope my car is still in the same place, though."  
  
"I'm sure it'll be. Now, if you expect it still to be in one piece, that's another story," said Luka with a playful smile as he grabbed his crutches and used the table as a support to stand up.  
  
"I'll walk you to the door."  
  
"No, Luka, really. . ." Susan started to protest.  
  
"Susan. . ." Luka's voice held a mild tone of reproach. "I can still cross my own living room."  
  
"All right, all right," Susan gave up.  
  
When they were out in the living room she remembered her purse and the movie.  
  
"Wait, I have to get my purse," she said and hurried to Luka's room.  
  
When she came out again, he was waiting for her, her coat in his hands. He held it out for her.  
  
"I always knew that there was a gentleman deep inside you," she quipped as she turned around to put the coat on.  
  
Luka adjusted the coat to her shoulders.  
  
"Thank you, Susan," he said. His voice was very quiet and she didn't know if she should take that in earnest, or if it was an answer to her teasing. She decided to keep things in the light mood.  
  
"But very, very deep inside," she quipped.  
  
When she turned around, Luka was smiling. He opened the door for her.  
  
"I really had a nice evening," he said.  
  
"Me too. Hey, shouldn't we try it again some other day?" She suggested and was surprised at the ease in which she had made her proposal. In fact, another evening of movie, popcorn and beer sounded relaxing.  
  
"I'd love to."  
  
Luka's expression was open. He seemed to be saying it in earnest, and not out of a sense of propriety.  
  
"All right, then. I'll call you later in the week."  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Have a good night, Susan."  
  
He stood on the threshold until the doors of the elevator opened. She winked at him. After she disappeared, Luka went into his apartment and closed the door. He wondered if she would call. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he had to admit he wished she would. 


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of this story (except for Luka's father).  
  
Author's notes: Well, it's been a long time since I updated last. Once again thanks to my faithful beta readers Mrs S Eyre and Psychopoet. Your corrections and comments have been really encouraging. I wouldn't have done it this far without you.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
The bell at the door dinged as a customer came in. Shelly was trying to lift a box she'd got earlier that morning, and she didn't look up straightaway. When she got the box to the counter, she cast a quick glance around, but there was nobody in the open space in front of her, where the new releases were displayed on two large tables. Whoever had entered, would have to be at the back of the shop, behind one of the shelves. Well, if the client had found his or her way so fast, it would be one of the regulars who already knew the place by heart and wouldn't need her help.  
  
She took the pocket knife and started cutting the tape on the box. Suddenly, the knife hit against a staple in the box and her hand slid over the blade. She cursed as she looked at the deep gash on her right thumb. Great. Just what she needed. She held her injured finger in her other hand to stop the blood and made her way around the counter and towards the little bathroom at the back of the shop. In her hurry, she bumped against a woman who was crouching in front of one of the shelves, looking at the titles. The woman fell to her side, letting out the beginning of a very familiar word. Shelly felt her cheeks burn.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Shelly excused herself. "I didn't see you. Are you all right?"  
  
She would have loved to reach out her hand to pull the woman up, but was afraid she would stain everything if she let go of her thumb. The woman stood up, wiping her hands and smiled tentatively. She'd blushed too.  
  
"It's nothing," she said.  
  
Shelly knew that face, but she couldn't place it straightaway.  
  
"I'm sorry I bumped into you this way. I really have to get to the back of the store. . ." she said.  
  
The woman made space for her, but soon spotted her hands.  
  
"Did you hurt yourself?" She asked in obvious concern.  
  
"Oh, it's nothing. I cut myself with a pocket knife."  
  
"Maybe I can help? I'm a nurse."  
  
"No, not really," replied Shelly, making her way into the bathroom. "It's no big deal."  
  
"Okay. But tell me if you can't stop the bleeding."  
  
"Thank you," answered Shelly as she opened the tap and put her hand under the water.  
  
As she washed the cut, she suddenly remembered the woman. She was the one who'd bought the Kundera novel for the shy, foreign guy who'd dropped by a couple of weeks ago. The woman had spent a good two hours in the shop trying to make up her mind. Well, it seemed her pains at choosing the right novel had turned out to be fruitful. Shelly still remembered the earnest look in the man's eyes when he'd told her he'd liked it. As she wiped her hands and wrapped the injured finger in some toilet paper Shelly wondered whether he'd found out it was her who'd sent it and had been able to thank her. Maybe she'd told him. Or maybe she didn't want him to know she had sent it? She went out of the bathroom. The woman was still standing in front of the same shelf, and moved to make space for her.  
  
"How did it go?"  
  
"Very well, thank you. I think the blood has stopped."  
  
The woman nodded and focused on the shelf once again. Shelly sensed it would be best if she just left her alone, so she went back to the counter and to her box.  
  
She had managed to empty the box single handed and had begun entering the titles in the database when the woman came up to the counter with a couple of books in her hands.  
  
"I think I'll take these," she said, with an almost apologetic smile.  
  
Shelly smiled back, as she thought those two looked somewhat tentative. Well, maybe the man's shyness was a bit more pronounced, but still it was a common trait between them.  
  
"Okay," said Shelly, taking the books and passing the bar code under the bar code reader.  
  
One of them was a cheap paperback, the other one was a more expensive edition. She brushed over both titles.  
  
"Thirty four twenty."  
  
The woman took her wallet out of her purse while Shelly pulled out a paper bag from one of the drawers in the counter.  
  
"Huh. . . Could you . . . Could you wrap that one as a gift?" Asked the woman pointing at the more expensive book. A book of stories by Italo Calvino.  
  
"Sure."  
  
Shelly opened another drawer where they held the gift paper marked with the logo of the shop, but then she changed her mind. They had some beautiful wrapping papers on sale. She turned around, got a couple of sheets and spread them on the counter. She didn't stamp the bookshop's seal on the first page. Instead she picked up a nice bookmark from the ones they had on display and put it between the first pages. Then she deftly wrapped the book and tied the package with a green ribbon. She put both books in a bag and handed them to the woman.  
  
"So, how much will that be?"  
  
"Thirty four twenty," Shelly answered.  
  
The woman looked up from her wallet.  
  
"But what about the wrapping paper and bookmark?"  
  
Shelly smiled and winked.  
  
"Courtesy of the house."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
Luka turned his head around swiftly. His face lit up when he saw her. He seemed like a small child about to be given some candy.  
  
"I never thought I'd have that effect on you," commented Susan with a naughty smile, trying to hide her relief at seeing his reaction.  
  
It was the third time she dropped by Luka's apartment, and this time she had taken the liberty of not calling in advance to ask him if she could come over. In fact, she hadn't thought she would be spending the evening at Luka's, but when Jing-Mei cried off their girls' evening to have dinner with Pratt and Abby had got stuck in the ER, she had decided Luka's was her best choice for a nice and quiet evening. She had stopped by the video store and got the movies, had bought microwave popcorn and chips and had found herself by the door of the building before she thought it over.  
  
"It's not you. It's the movie," Luka quipped. "Your choice is always the best. . . "  
  
"I know, I know. . . " Replied Susan, shaking her head.  
  
The undertone of irony was clear in Luka's voice, and she was expecting to listen to what he'd come up with next. Last time they had discussed movies long and heatedly. Although both of them liked period films, their preferences differed in every other genre. Luka liked European films best, and he'd spoken about a load Susan hadn't seen. The few titles he'd talked about and which she had recognised, she remembered as being slow and boring. And, of course, he'd scoffed over her love for science-fiction films. He'd boasted the two best science-fiction films, the only ones worth seeing, had been made by a Russian guy back over in the nineteen seventies. Susan had decided he couldn't get away with that. Okay, she would watch the films he had named, but he would also have to go through her own favourites, she had told him. To her surprise, he had given in almost immediately, albeit feigning resignation.  
  
"Your choices make my brain stop functioning. They're better than a sleeping pill. . . "  
  
Susan growled.  
  
"Oh, come on. You've only seen two of them. Do you always have to pose as the intellectually refined European?"  
  
Luka shrugged, and they both chuckled. Susan plopped down on the bed beside him.  
  
"What did you bring this time?"  
  
She showed him the box. He frowned.  
  
"Star Wars?"  
  
She nodded emphatically.  
  
"But Susan, you really can't expect. . . "  
  
"Of course I expect you to watch it with me. It's a classic. And it was a landmark for our generation. Really, Luka, that is an inexcusable blank in your cultural background. It's time you do something about it."  
  
Luka ran a hand through his hair.  
  
"But Susan, I told you. . . "  
  
"What you saw was the FIFTH part of the saga, Luka," she interrupted. "This one is the FIRST movie and, believe me, the first three are the best."  
  
"The first THREE?" He faked a horrified expression as she saw her fish two other boxes from her purse. "Oh no. . . "  
  
"Oh, yes."  
  
He looked around as if trying to find a way out. He frowned when he saw Jack leaning on the threshold, his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
"Don't tell me you're part of this scheme."  
  
"Of course I am. I grew up with Star Wars. I'm here to make sure you don't leave the room," answered Jack with a wink.  
  
"Jesus," mumbled Luka under his breath.  
  
"Hey, I didn't know you were a religious man. . . " said Susan, standing up and putting the first video in the VCR. "Pop corn?"  
  
"I'm going to need it to survive this. . . " muttered Luka, but neither Susan nor Jack heard him, because they were already on their way to the kitchen.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
"Zhivago!" Carter's roar resounded in the whole apartment as he unlocked the door.  
  
Susan jumped up in the bed and then cast an amused look at Luka, who blushed and sagged deeper against the pillows that held him up. She raised her eyebrows.  
  
"Zhivago?" She asked.  
  
Luka didn't look at her.  
  
"Over here!" He shouted, and then fixed his sight on the TV screen, slowly turning a deep shade of crimson.  
  
Susan couldn't help a grin.  
  
". . . place looked so empty I thought you'd walked out on me. . ."  
  
They could listen to Carter's voice getting louder as he got close to the room. He stopped dead on his tracks when he spotted Susan sitting on the bed, by Luka. It took him a while to gather himself. The last person he had expected to see comfortably reclined in Luka's bed was Susan. She seemed completely at home. Had she been visiting?  
  
"Oh. . . Hi, Susan," he stuttered.  
  
A brief and awkward silence followed. Carter seemed unable to overcome his bewilderment. Luka paused the video and looked at him with a wary look in his eyes. Susan wanted to answer with something more than a mere 'Hi' to dispel the awkwardness, but she couldn't come up with anything, and then it hit her.  
  
"Surprised?"  
  
Carter was stunned at that.  
  
"Uh. . ."  
  
Luka grinned.  
  
"You can close your mouth now, Carter," he said, and Susan felt a heavy weight lifting from her shoulders.  
  
Fortunately, he had taken the whole situation lightly. They were but laying the foundations of a friendship, and Susan was acutely aware of the fact that Luka could, and probably would, back off and lock her out if he had the slightest impression she was visiting out of a sense of duty. Which she wasn't, by the way. She tried to figure out something else to say. Unfortunately, her wit abandoned her, so the best she could come up with was:  
  
"No, just keep it open. It's an interesting sight."  
  
Carter endured being made the laughing stock as he fidgeted with his keys. He then wiped his forehead with his hand, tiredly. It had been a long and busy shift and he wasn't feeling particularly fit to start a bantering round. He cast a glance at the screen.  
  
"You watching a video?"  
  
The two of them nodded simultaneously, and Carter couldn't help an amused smile.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"The Return of the Jedi," Susan answered.  
  
"What?"  
  
Now Carter was completely dumbfounded.  
  
"Return of the Jedi." Luka repeated.  
  
Carter cast Susan an astonished look.  
  
"Did you get him to see Star Wars?"  
  
Susan nodded, a proud smile on her face.  
  
"How on earth did you do that?"  
  
Now Luka was fidgeting with the remote control. It was his turn to being turned into the laughing stock. Susan just raised her eyebrows.  
  
"My secret."  
  
Carter shook his head. Then he spotted the cans on the nightstand.  
  
"Is there any coke left?" He asked, pulling up a chair to the side of the bed.  
  
"In the fridge," said Luka and stopped the VCR.  
  
"No, don't rewind it," Carter said before going out. "I can take up from where you are."  
  
There was no way Luka was going to discuss that.  
  
After a moment, Carter came back with his can and sat down. Luka started the film again, and then he felt Carter poking his arm.  
  
"Hand me those."  
  
He reached out over the bed and gave Carter the bowl of chips.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
The credits rolled on the screen while both Carter and Susan hummed along the musical theme. Luka sighed. They had gone through the whole thing with a couple of bowls of pop corn, chips and lots of coke, and it hadn't been all that bad. He had in fact enjoyed the simple story and the special effects. They were primitive, but that was what he'd liked about them. But of course, he wasn't going to admit that in front of Susan. She'd rub it in his face at every opportunity for the next fifty years if he did. And Carter had obviously also grown up with Star Wars, so Susan had another ally there. After watching the first movie with them, Jack had leant the crutches way out of Luka's reach to ensure he stayed in bed, before heading home. Luka just didn't need Carter siding up with them.  
  
Luka waited a little until most of the credits had passed and then yawned exaggeratedly and rubbed his eyes.  
  
"Is it already over?" He asked, innocently.  
  
Susan and Carter gave him a reproachful look.  
  
"Aren't you hungry? How about ordering something?"  
  
Carter's look turned from mock reproach into astonishment, and Luka couldn't help grinning at that. Carter had dropped by often after Luka had been released from the hospital, but he had always been careful to make his visits short, not wanting to intrude on Luka's privacy. Luka had appreciated the gesture, and since he hadn't felt like having people around the first weeks, he had never made any effort to make Carter stay a bit longer. But somehow, all that had changed in the course of the past week. That night, he was enjoying Carter's and Susan's company and he hoped they'd stay a bit longer for a friendly chat. And since they were both in his house now, he could just prove to them he was an acceptable host.  
  
"Do you like Thai food, Susan?" He asked, purportedly ignoring Carter.  
  
"Anything that's got some meat in it."  
  
"Do you think we could get something from your Thai place or is it too late?" Luka asked, looking at Carter, and relishing Carter's bewilderment. He knew Carter wouldn't think he'd noticed the relish with which he'd had eaten the food he'd brought over a couple of weeks ago.  
  
"I don't know whether they make deliveries to this part of town."  
  
"They do," Luka asserted with conviction, and enjoyed Carter's bewilderment a bit longer.  
  
He cast aside the comforter, turned around and nodded towards the crutches, which were stacked right behind Carter. Carter gave them to him and made room so Luka could stand up. Luka cast a look over his shoulder and grimaced at Susan.  
  
"Come on, sleepyhead. You'll have to choose what you want to eat."  
  
He took the cordless phone, shoved it into one of his pockets and stood up.  
  
"Where are you going?" Carter wondered as Luka went out.  
  
"To the kitchen," Luka answered without turning around. "The menu's on the fridge."  
  
Susan cocked her eyebrow.  
  
"Well, I guess we'll have to clean up after him," she said picking up the empty bowls.  
  
Carter shook his head and sighed.  
  
"As always. . ."  
  
"Don't worry, Carter, we'll take revenge when he gets off those crutches."  
  
"I heard that!" Luka shouted from down the hall.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
Luka had scribbled down Carter's and Susan's choices and had turned on the telephone when Carter began stuttering.  
  
"Uh. . . eh. . . Luka, I. . ."  
  
Luka turned off the phone and watched Carter quietly.  
  
"You wouldn't mind if Abby dropped by, would you?"  
  
Carter's question was so wary it worried Susan. Weren't Carter and Luka supposed to have turned into good friends after coming back from the Congo? Geez, Carter even called Luka Zhivago and didn't even get an ugly stare for that. Why was he suddenly asking Luka if he could bring his girlfriend over? Suddenly, Susan realised the magnitude of the defences that Luka had built around him to prevent people from coming closer. She waited expectantly to see what Luka's reaction would be. At first, his look seemed guarded, but then, slowly, a smile crept over his face.  
  
"Are you throwing a brick party in my house without telling me?" He asked in mock offence.  
  
He didn't understand why Susan and Carter burst out in laughter. His joke couldn't possibly have been as good as that.  
  
"It's a BLOCK party, Luka" Susan explained when their laughter had receded.  
  
"Whatever. I knew it had something to do with rectangles of some sort."  
  
He had to wait a bit until their second roar subsided.  
  
"So, when's she coming over? Do you have an idea of what she'd like to eat?"  
  
"Hm. . . Let me see. . ." Said Carter as he studied the menu.  
  
A few minutes later, Luka had placed the call and they had moved into the living room. Susan was looking over Luka's collection of CD's while Carter let himself fall on the couch and let his head rest back.  
  
"Now, now. Don't fall asleep," Luka warned.  
  
He got no reaction from Carter. He slowly sank into one of the armchairs with a groan. Immediately, Carter's head propped up and his eyes flew open.  
  
"Did that hurt?"  
  
Luka wrinkled his nose, embarrassed. He darted a glance at Susan, who was apparently immersed in her study of his slim music collection. He shook his head, and tried a nonchalant tone.  
  
"My father's right. These chairs are just too low."  
  
"How's he doing?"  
  
"Fine. Worried. He sends his regards."  
  
"Worried? About what?"  
  
"Christmas."  
  
Susan heard Luka's cryptic answer as she put the CD into the CD player and hit the play button.  
  
"How come your father's worried about Christmas?" She asked as she sat on the armchair opposite to Luka's.  
  
"He's spending Christmas at my brother's. . ."  
  
Luka made a pause. His forehead creased, and for an instant, Carter became really worried. Could it be something about the war that made Christmas a particularly painful time of the year for Luka's family? Suddenly, Luka spoke again.  
  
"Would you like some wine? I'd bet there's a bottle of white wine somewhere."  
  
Carter looked at him intently. Was Luka diverting the conversation? Then Luka smiled, realising his explanation had been left halfway through.  
  
"My nieces are two hyperactive teenagers and they adore their grandfather. Whenever he goes to visit they're all over him."  
  
Carter smiled in relief and stood up.  
  
"Well, your father survived the firing squad, Luka. I'm sure he'll survive anything. Where's that bottle of wine now?"  
  
He rummaged in the kitchen as he heard Susan drag a description of his nieces and sister-in-law out of Luka. He came back carrying the bottle and three glasses, and he handed the bottle and corkscrew to Luka, while he set the glasses on the coffee table. Susan was engaged in a story about little Susie and the Christmas tree. Luka smiled politely as she finished the story and he pulled the cork out of the bottle. Carter could have sworn there was an indefinable sadness around his eyes. Christmas stories about small children was maybe not such a good idea. But then he noticed the nostalgic look in Susan's eyes as soon as she stopped laughing and he came to think both Susan and Luka had something in common there.  
  
"So, did you think it over?" He asked, suddenly.  
  
Luka had a sip of his wine, a slightly annoyed smile curving his lips.  
  
"Uh huh. . ."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I'll be working, Carter. But thanks."  
  
"Have you talked to Romano?"  
  
Luka nodded.  
  
"He called this morning. We have an appointment tomorrow."  
  
"So you still don't know."  
  
"Carter. I'll be working."  
  
"Hey, would you mind? I'm still in the room, you know," Susan complained.  
  
Both of them smiled at her sheepishly.  
  
"Carter's invited me over for Christmas." Luka explained, trying to sound nonchalant.  
  
"And he's trying to find every lame excuse he can figure out to wriggle out of it," Carter finished.  
  
Luka glared rays and thunderstorms at Carter. Susan couldn't help a muffled giggle. Then the doorbell rang, and Carter sprung to his feet. Luka made his best attempt to stand up too, since he was determined to pay for the meal and knew that if Carter got first to the door he would pay for it and then brush him off. He didn't have much luck however. He couldn't manage to gather enough momentum to get his weight on his feet and sank back in the chair. He reddened when he noticed Susan was staring at him worriedly.  
  
"Do me a favour, Susan," he said, fishing his wallet from a side pocket and tossing it to her. "Don't let Carter pay."  
  
Susan grabbed Luka's wallet with a deft movement, and then Luka heard Abby's voice.  
  
"And what should Carter pay me for? Hey, Susan."  
  
Susan answered Abby's greeting with a wink, while Luka clumsily turned around in the chair to look at Abby.  
  
"Hey, Luka."  
  
"Hey. . . " He desperately tried to find something to say. "Would you like some. . ." He stopped halfway through his sentence, suddenly realising he had been about to offer Abby the wine they were sharing. "Something to drink?" He smiled, hoping his pause had gone unnoticed.  
  
If she had noticed his hesitation, she didn't show any signs. She nodded.  
  
"Perrier would be fine."  
  
"I'll bring it," said Carter, crossing the living room.  
  
"So, you finally slipped out of the ER?" asked Susan, and Luka was grateful she picked up the thread of the conversation.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * *  
  
Luka tossed and turned in bed. He peered at the alarm clock on the nightstand: almost 3 am. Admitting to himself there was no point in alternately staring at the shadows on the wall and the shadows on the ceiling, he turned on the reading lamp. He pulled himself up, then grabbed a couple of pillows and stacked them behind his back. He cast a look at the books on the nightstand. There was a small selection of them. In the last week, he hadn't been reading just one book as he'd done during the first days he had been able to concentrate. Now he had started on several at the same time and alternated among them. He wasn't sure whether that meant that his concentration and eagerness to read had increased, or whether it was just the opposite.  
  
He picked up the one that was on top of the pile, opened it and had a look at the beautiful bookmark. It had come inside the book, some days ago. Again, there hadn't been any name of sender, no return address, no card, no inscription. And this time, the book hadn't even borne a trace of where it had been bought. When he had opened the outer envelope, after carefully studying the stamps, Luka had opened the gift paper with care, had stared at the bookmark for a while and then, before starting to read the book, he had carefully smoothed down the wrapping paper, had doubled it and had put it in a drawer. Afterwards, he had wondered at what he had done. It had been a very long time since he had last treasured anything. In fact, for many years he had lived only with the most basic things. He had learnt, from painful experience, that everything on earth was disposable, so he hadn't wanted to own anything. There was no point in getting attached. The only thing he had carried along from the time before the war had been the picture of Danijela and Jasna.  
  
He sighed, realising he hadn't understood the first paragraph of the story, and started once again. He had liked the few stories he had read until now, but this book hadn't caught his attention as forcefully as the one by Kundera. Maybe it was because it was a collection of short stories and not a novel. He had always liked novels best. He enjoyed how the story and the characters had time and space to develop. He knew that part of the charm of short stories was the tight construction, the exact fitting of the pieces, but he couldn't help feeling cheated when he suddenly came to the end of them. He always had the feeling there was always something left out, something missing.  
  
Luka looked up at the window, where the faint light of the street slipped through the half closed blinds. He took a deep breath. Once again, he had failed to grasp what he had just read. He looked down and read the first words on the page, which by now had gained an annoying familiar ring. 'The shores of the small island were rocky, abrupt. On top of them grew the short, dense vegetation. . .' Rocky shores, dense vegetation. Like the small inhabited island just across the strait a few kilometres from his grandfather's farm. God, he missed the sea. But no, he didn't just miss the sea. He had lived a couple of years in San Francisco some time ago, and still there, by the Pacific Ocean, he'd felt the same yearning as he felt now in Chicago. What he really missed was the part of the coast he had grown up close to. There were no words to describe how much he missed it, how much he longed, and feared, to go back there.  
  
'I know what you mean,' Susan had said that evening, when they'd been discussing home and not being able to go back to it. She had told him about a tree in the backyard of her grandparent's house. It had always been her favourite hiding place whenever her father and grandfather engaged in a heated argument in any of the family celebrations. The tree had been cut down when she had been thirteen, and since then she had always felt in the open and unprotected whenever she had been forced to go to family gatherings.  
  
Luka wasn't certain Susan understood him, despite her efforts at connecting. It wasn't just that he feared being in the open if he came back, his emotions bare and too raw to master. It was rather that he feared he had lost the emotions, the memories. He had changed, as much as the place itself had changed. Too many years of running away from himself and evading meaningful human relationships had emptied him to a point in which he wondered whether he would ever be able to be near someone again, to reconnect with someone at a personal level.  
  
Some of the things that had happened this evening seemed to prove his fears right. Although he had to admit he had liked having Abby, Susan and Carter around, and had enjoyed their light conversation and teasing, he had also felt that there was a gulf between him and the three of them, a breach which he just didn't know how to close. Or maybe it wasn't just him, maybe they weren't willing to close the gap themselves. He had sensed how they all trod carefully around him. He had seen the wariness and doubt in their eyes. Well, he had certainly given them reasons for being on their guard. He hadn't been the gentlest or friendliest man before he travelled to the Congo. . . He shrank at the bitter sentiments that were involuntarily creeping back to him. He tried to push the thoughts away.  
  
He stared fixedly at the page, but by then he knew that trying to read the book was an exercise in futility, and so was trying to sleep. He put the book back on the nightstand, shoved the covers away and grabbed the crutches. He shuddered a bit when his feet touched the cold floor. The air was chilly. He never set the heating too high, like people were used to here in America, because he just couldn't get used to the high room temperatures. He smiled when he remembered both Abby and Susan had complained of being cold that evening, and had stared incredulously at him when he had suggested them he could lend them a sweater. . .  
  
Luka leant over to grab his clothes which were lying at the foot of the bed and slowly put on his pants and sweatshirt. He shoved his feet in the slippers. The alarm clock stood at 4.35. Luka stood up. Well, if he wasn't going to sleep anymore, he'd better make himself a cup of coffee. He had to meet Romano later that day. It would be better if he were at least partially alert.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
* * * * * * 


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimers: All the usual ones apply.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
There was an ambulance blocking the entrance to the bay, so Luka's taxi couldn't make it to the doors of the ER. With a sigh of resignation, he paid the driver and opened the door. After struggling a bit with the crutches, he got them out and got to his feet, supporting himself against the roof of the car. He then slid the crutches under his armpits, slammed the door of the cab and carefully made his way through the ambulance bay.  
  
He kept on staring at the floor. He didn't want to slip on a fragment of ice and end up with his butt painfully hitting the floor like he'd done earlier that day, when he had got out of his apartment. He was sure nothing serious had happened, but his right hip was still letting its complaints be heard. He'd been lucky he hadn't fallen on his left side. So now he was cautiously studying the ground before he set the crutches in front of him and then giving a step towards them. He was about to get to the entrance when he heard the voice.  
  
"What, willing to join the lunatic asylum already?"  
  
Luka shrank inwardly. That was just his luck. Of all the people he would have met in the ER that day, he had to bump into Romano first. He'd hoped he'd meet Carter, or Susan, or Abby. He looked up. Romano was sitting on the bumper of one of the ambulances, with a half smile pasted on his face but there was something different about him. Luka couldn't really spot what it was. The smile had lost part of its edge, or so it seemed. Luka hovered over the little man.  
  
"Uhm. Hello, Dr. Romano," he muttered.  
  
Romano seemed to examine his face for a while.  
  
"Well, you shouldn't look so surprised to meet me, since I gather you're coming to our meeting, aren't you?"  
  
"Uh huh," Luka nodded.  
  
Romano let out a sharp grin.  
  
"Not the most communicative of men as usual, Kovac. Or maybe you forgot your English while running adventures in the jungle?"  
  
Luka decided that was not worth a reply. Strangely enough, Romano seemed a little taken aback by his silence.  
  
"You're early," he said after a while.  
  
Luka wasn't going to admit he had hoped for a little encouragement from his co-workers before he had to face the chief of the ER. He just nodded.  
  
Romano gave out an exasperated sigh, but made no comments. They were silent for a while, and at the end, Romano spoke again.  
  
"Would you join me for coffee, then? I was about to get over to that hovel of a diner to grab a cup before you came."  
  
Luka gawked at him for a second before he managed some kind of reaction.  
  
"Uh. all right," he said at last.  
  
Romano stood up and waited for him to wheel around The two of them made their way through the ambulance bay. Luka feared the little man would start one of his rounds of bantering to which he was sure he wouldn't be able to reply. He was having trouble enough trying to keep his balance without having to think of suitable replies to Romano's sarcasm. Not that he'd ever been good at it, anyway. But he didn't like the silence either. Time seemed to stand still as he tried to advance on his crutches. It felt like centuries before they reached the street and crossed it. Romano went ahead and held the door of the diner open for him, while Luka climbed the few steps.  
  
"Thank you," he said as he went past the little doctor.  
  
"Always welcome." There was, as always, a hint of mockery in Romano's voice, but otherwise it was unusually kind.  
  
Luka had a look around. There wasn't anybody from County in the diner. Just his luck. He picked one of the tables and hobbled his way to it. He sat, carefully stretching his left leg on the side of the aisle and placing the crutches beside him, while Romano sat on the opposite side.  
  
A waitress came to take their order. It took her a while to collect herself after she caught sight of Luka's leg. Then, after a brief silence, she took her notebook from the pocket in her apron and the pencil from behind her ear.  
  
"What will it be, gentlemen?"  
  
"Coffee," answered Romano curtly. "Would you like something else, Kovac?"  
  
Luka shook his head.  
  
"Coffee, it is," said the waitress and went away.  
  
Romano stared into Luka's face, and Luka gave him a tentative look. Then he looked out through the big windows, uncomfortable.  
  
"So, tell me why are you so eager to join the leper colony."  
  
Luka shrugged.  
  
"My sick leave is over."  
  
"Yeah, but it's MY job to remind you of that and make sure you get your sorry ass to work. You aren't trying to snatch my job from me, are you?"  
  
"I need to get back to work," Luka sighed.  
  
"Well, out of the display of graceful mobility you've made so far I'd guess your performance in the ER will not be stunningly efficient."  
  
"I can work," retorted Luka with irritation.  
  
"Come on, Kovac. I watched you cross the ambulance bay. It took you almost ten minutes."  
  
"There's a lot of ice out there."  
  
Luka didn't understand why Romano was playing the good-hearted boss. Usually, the ER chiefs were always eager to get their doctors back on duty as soon as they were on their feet, crutches or no crutches. Weaver had never had trouble with that. She had even let Carter work when he had obviously still been in pain after the stabbing.  
  
"The floors of the ER can also be damn slippery. And how exactly are you going to handle a trauma?"  
  
"I can take the minor cases."  
  
"Gee, man. You must be desperate." Romano shook his head in disbelief. "Unless."  
  
The waitress came with two mugs and the coffee pot. Romano waited for her to serve the coffee and walk away before he finished his sentence.  
  
"Unless you're trying to compete with me."  
  
Luka stared at him while his forehead creased. He didn't understand a thing.  
  
"On the freak show, I mean. I'm number one on the top ten."  
  
Luka was still in the dark. Romano let out a sigh of exasperation. Then he raised his left arm and put it on the table. Luka reddened when he caught sight of the hook. Oh God. Why hadn't Carter or Susan ever told him about it? He was unable to stare for long at the prosthesis and his sight fell to his cup of coffee. Romano's next words hit him like a physical blow.  
  
"But by now you'd have to know that you'd have to get something chopped off just to get to my level."  
  
A tense silence followed. Luka gritted his teeth.  
  
"When are you going to have those taken out?" Asked Romano suddenly.  
  
Luka looked up. Romano was pointing at the half pins and the rod that protruded from his left leg and stuck out from the side of his jeans.  
  
"In three weeks."  
  
"Well, it'd be pretty nasty if those got caught in the railings of some gurney." started Romano, and then studied Luka's expression carefully. "But if you're really so miserable without us I can arrange something for you. How about working part time to start with?"  
  
The tone of Romano's voice was almost kind. It took Luka a while before he managed a nod. Then he had a sip of coffee. He still couldn't figure Romano out. The little doctor smiled, pleased with himself when he noticed Luka's confusion. He rummaged in the pocket of his lab coat. He finally fished up a diary.  
  
"Let's see. How about starting the day after tomorrow?"  
  
"That will be fine." Luka hesitated. "Thank you, Dr. Romano."  
  
"Like I said, you're always welcome. Green Card."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Luka stirred his glass so the ice cubes clinked against its sides. He raised the glass to look at the drink against the light. The alcohol traced a delicate pattern as it blended with the water from the ice cubes. He sniffed the drink, relishing on the penetrating smell. He then had a sip. He tasted the dry, stinging flavour and then smiled to himself. He had known he was doing well when he had chosen the best brand of vodka. Anyway, it was a holiday, and he was celebrating. Well, sure, his way of feasting might not be the most orthodox, but it was a kind of celebration, the one he felt most comfortable with.  
  
He had spent a quiet afternoon reading and watching a rerun of a football match, and then he had fixed himself a quick supper. After making sure it was the right time, he had picked up the phone and dialled his brother's number. He had laughed when he heard the commotion in his brother's crowded apartment as Sofija, Stjepan's wife, had picked the telephone. He had had a brief conversation with her, and then he had got Stjepan on the phone. Of course, there hadn't been any chance of having a civilised talk with his older brother while the rest of the family was shouting and fussing in the background, but anyway they had been able to exchange some words.  
  
And then he'd got Tata on the line, and enjoyed Tata's futile attempts at finding out how he was doing while trying to get Ana and Dunja off his back. Then Ana had got hold of the phone and had teased him about him asking her about her studies, and had feigned offence at listening that her favourite uncle had been apparently flirting with American women instead of coming to Croatia to flirt with her, as it should be. When she was done with him, it had been Dunja's turn to get to the phone and ask him whether he was spending a nice 'Chrrrristhmas', her tongue rolling in an imitation of an American accent.  
  
At last, Tata had been able to rescue the receiver and Stjepan had apparently managed to get both of his daughters out of the living room, giving Tata some space to have a real conversation with Luka. They had spent a good half hour telling each other the latest news. Luka had prepared a few so he would be able to avoid Tata's uncomfortable questions, and had managed to fend some of them off. Of course, it hadn't been that easy with the Gillian issue, nor with his lack of sleep. But Tata seemed happy to know he was back to work and thriving.  
  
Luka had then listened to Tata's complaints about how big and annoying had Ana and Dunja become during the last year, and how he wasn't able to get them off his back. He had had a big laugh at the description Tata had made of Ana introducing him to her boyfriend and declaring to the poor boy that her grandpa was her first love and that nobody would be able to replace him ever. Luka could just picture the poor boy's face dropping in dejection and embarrassment at that. Ana was a piece of work. Luka pitied the boys her age. In the end, Luka had sent his warmest regards to everybody and had hung up.  
  
Funny how a half-an hour phone call could turn your whole day around, he thought as he distractedly brushed the plastic surface of the receiver. He actually felt light-hearted. He had known all along that phone call would be the high-point of his day, as it had been during the past twelve years or so, but he hadn't expected it to lift his spirits so much this year. Well, he told himself rubbing his eyes with a hand, better to enjoy the good mood and go on with his Christmas. He leant towards the coffee table and had a look at the small assortment of videos Susan had left there. He would watch a movie or maybe two, while he had a drink or maybe two and then he would go to sleep, just like he had done every year, whenever he hadn't been lucky enough to be on a shift.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Gillian knocked at the door and then tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She cringed at the sound of high pitched, merry voices coming from the apartment. She didn't exactly know what she was doing there. But the alternative, staying in her own apartment, watching TV and reading a little, was anything but an appealing option for spending Christmas. Not that her way of celebrating, back in Montreal, had ever been very homely. She usually partied with friends in somebody's house, or in an overcrowded disco. Of course, Anto's, Bojana's and Marija's definition of Christmas was far away from what she was used to.  
  
Suddenly, the door flew open, and Bojana stood there, greeting her. Gillian managed to paste a smile on her face and somehow answer to her greetings, as she braced herself for the unavoidable: endless presentations and the multiple questions that would follow. Anto's and Bojana's numerous friends would surely be curious about this Canadian who'd decided to move to Chicago and learn Croatian, of all the languages in the world. She had already found a fitting answer for the first question, albeit a false one: her job at the nursing home was better than anything she'd been offered in Canada. For the second, however, she hadn't been able to forge a suitable reply. She hoped somehow she would get a sudden whoosh of inspiration, an answer so short and definitive that it would fend off further inquiries.  
  
Bojana had already got hold of her coat and had hung it on the rack. Gillian noticed there were but a couple of coats there. Maybe she had come too early and they were still expecting their other guests? She noticed Bojana's look of concern and managed to gather herself.  
  
"Sorry? I didn't understand what you said. . ." She said, when she realised Bojana had just asked her something.  
  
Bojana darted her a knowing smile.  
  
"Yeah, I noticed that. Are you all right, Gillian?"  
  
Gillian nodded.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
Gillian sighed. She should have known it wouldn't be easy to fool Bojana. She pointed at the coat rack.  
  
"Your guests not arrived? Did I come too early?"  
  
Bojana smiled. Gillian's questions had been meant to divert her attention from whatever was bothering her, but they had had the opposite effect. Now Bojana had a pretty good idea of what was eating her up.  
  
"We have, in fact, only four guests beside you, Gillian," she explained and made a mental note of scolding Anto later. He should have explained to Gillian how were they going to celebrate Christmas. "There are Matej and Jelka which you've already met, and then there are Rosa and Mirna, mamma's friends."  
  
Immediately, she noticed Gillian's smile of relief.  
  
"Now, the old ladies can be quite bothersome. But you just wink at me if they pin you down and I'll come to your rescue, okay?"  
  
Gillian grinned.  
  
"I'm sure it is not necessary, Bojana."  
  
"No, believe me, it is. Promise me you'll call me."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Fine," said Bojana as she led Gillian into the living room. "Matej, here's Gillian."  
  
Gillian smiled at the tall, heavy built man that was sprawled on the couch, but hurried to stand up as soon as he saw her. She held out her hand and smiled. This time the smile on her lips was genuine. Matej and Jelka were two of the few friends Anto and Bojana had introduced her to. They were in their mid-thirties, both engineers, both working with big companies in the Chicago area. She glanced around the empty living room.  
  
"Where's Jelka? Is she hiding somewhere?" Asked Gillian, trying to make fun of her own bewilderment.  
  
"She's attending mass," explained Matej.  
  
Gillian raised her eyebrows. So that had been the reason why they had asked her to come so late. Of course, they were gone to midnight mass.  
  
"With the others?"  
  
Bojana nodded.  
  
"Yeah, with the good Christians. It's only us heathens left here."  
  
Matej laughed at the joke, but Gillian's forehead creased.  
  
"Heathens?"  
  
Bojana cast an arm over Gillian's shoulders.  
  
"Not good Christians. Unbelievers," she explained. "We have to get dinner ready as a punishment. Are you two going to help me?"  
  
"Yeah, of course," Gillian answered.  
  
Matej looked tentative, apparently weighing his chances to slip out of the forced commitment, but after Bojana cast him a threatening look he picked up his drink from the coffee table and followed both women into the kitchen.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Luka was making himself a sandwich in the kitchen when the telephone rang. He dropped the knife on the counter and grabbed his crutches. Cursing under his breath, he hurried to the living room, as he counted the rings. Two. . . three. . . he was still at some distance from the phone and the answering machine would pick up at the fifth ring. Four. . . He hadn't expected anyone to call that evening. That was the reason why he hadn't been carrying the cordless around. Who could it be? He plopped on the couch and grabbed the receiver.  
  
"Hello?" He said, out of breath.  
  
"Caught you at a bad moment?" Susan's voice asked.  
  
"Kind of. . ." Luka trailed off.  
  
"Don't tell me you. . ." Susan faltered and decided to drop the low joke. It took her a minute to find another one, less loaded, to replace it. "Were lighting the Christmas tree."  
  
Luka laughed.  
  
"Making myself a sandwich and serving my third vodka," he deadpanned.  
  
"Got a good drinking rhythm," Susan noted, and glanced at her watch. Eleven thirty. She wondered whether Luka was planning to empty the bottle that night. If he did, he was taking it slowly.  
  
"Taking it easy," said Luka, as if he was reading her thoughts.  
  
That left her at a loss for words. Fortunately, he continued:  
  
"I've just had my first two while watching one of your movies. It was fun."  
  
"Oh, come on," Susan growled. "Do you really have to make my life even more miserable?"  
  
She was pleased to hear his chuckle.  
  
"So, how are things going on down there?" He asked.  
  
"Slow. For once."  
  
"Just my luck," he faked a complaint. "The first time in years I'm out of it and then you get a quiet shift."  
  
"It all depends on how you look at it, Luka. It's boring me out of my mind."  
  
"U huh."  
  
Susan suppressed a sigh when another silence invaded the line. Sometimes it was still difficult to get a conversation going with Luka, especially when he darted out his famous 'huh's' or 'u-huh's'. She had meant to wish him a Merry Christmas over the phone, but he wasn't making things easy. She just couldn't figure out how to keep things in the light mood without becoming too sentimental.  
  
"Well, I was wondering if you'd be up to a Christmas breakfast," she suddenly said. "You haven't tried my famous blueberry pancakes yet."  
  
"Uh. . . Susan. . . That's very nice of you, but you'll be drained tomorrow morning. . ."  
  
"Hey, I'm volunteering. Don't waste the chance."  
  
"Besides, I don't think I've got the ingredients. . ."  
  
"Never mind, I've got everything I need here."  
  
"You have?"  
  
Luka couldn't hide the shocked astonishment in his voice. He was touched. Had she really taken all the effort of shopping for a Christmas breakfast with him? And if she had, why hadn't she said anything to him before? Well, maybe it was because she knew he'd try to turn down her invitation. If she caught him by surprise, it was less possible he'd say no.  
  
"Yes, I do. How about me dropping by at eight?"  
  
There was a brief silence, and Susan shifted on her feet. This was getting more and more difficult. Would he say no? If he didn't, then she'd be into deep trouble. She would have to go home and pick the ingredients before heading to Luka's. And what if she didn't have everything she needed back home? Where would she find a convenience store open early on Christmas day?  
  
"Eight will be fine."  
  
Susan breathed in and out.  
  
"All right, see you tomorrow, then," she said, trying to sound cheerful.  
  
"Good night, Susan."  
  
"Hm. I think the line goes 'Merry Christmas'."  
  
She could listen him breath out as he smiled, and she instantly knew she'd been right in following her impulse and inviting herself over for breakfast.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Susan."  
  
"Merry Christmas, Luka."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"So, tell me, why did you decide to learn Croatian?"  
  
Gillian glared at Matej, who was sitting beside her by the table. She noticed a warm wave hitting her cheeks as she blushed. Geez. Just as they were peaking a great Christmas dinner. . . She blinked a couple of times, smiled and had a sip of wine, trying to make time for Anto or Bojana to intervene. But Bojana was busy talking to one of the old ladies, and Anto had just retreated to the kitchen to get another bottle of wine. She would have to get out of this one by herself.  
  
"Well. . ." She began, and then she was intensely aware of Marija and Rosa studying her. Of course, the old ladies wouldn't slip the chance of getting their hands into gossip material.  
  
"There's this guy I met in the Congo as I volunteered as a nurse with Alliance de Medicines International. I fell in love with him. Then he became really sick and the only language he'd speak was Croatian. So I tried to learn some to understand him."  
  
Matej raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Did you? Really?"  
  
Gillian tried not to roll her eyes. What an intelligent question. Well, she couldn't expect too much from him taking into account the amount of alcohol he'd already put into his system. She had also had a bit too much to drink herself. Otherwise, she would have never been so straightforward.  
  
"Yeah. But when he got well again things didn't work out. My fault, I guess. I assumed he'd feel the same as I did." Gillian's voice was carefully neutral and nonchalant as she went over her story. She shrugged and brushed the next question off, by raising her glass.  
  
"Merry Christmas," she said, addressing all the people around the table.  
  
They all lifted their glasses and toasted with her.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Green Card!" Luka felt the chills run down his spine as the commanding, familiar voice resounded in the hall.  
  
Some days before Luka had made it clear to Romano that he wasn't going to stand being called any more names, but had only got a sneer for an answer. Well, a sneer and a challenge:  
  
"If you find a name for me I really find obnoxious, I'll stop calling you names, Count Vlad. Otherwise you'll just have to develop a thicker skin."  
  
So Luka had started racking his brains. He had soon found out that the worse Croatian insults just washed over the little man. Cutting allusions to his height, baldness, foul temper, selfishness or oversized ego were also ineffective. References to a probable impotence or lack of sexual activity had only prompted a rant of sarcastic comments about Luka's former sexual partners in a volume high enough to be heard from the OR. It had made him work with his sight fixed to the floor for over a week, especially after most of the women in the ER had decided to assure him they thought Romano was the jerk, not him. Not even the boldest invectives about the lack of one arm had worked. And although he had got help from the ER staff, Luka was now sure he'd lost the challenge and he'd never hear the end of Romano's bickering.  
  
He turned around and faced the little doctor, perfectly conscious of the nurses and doctors on the hall. They hadn't stopped their tasks. They didn't provide a willing public for the ever continuing battle of words between the two of them anymore, after having witnessed defeat after defeat on Luka's part. He looked around and then focused on Romano.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Well, Igor. I reckon you're getting really good on those crutches. Turning around only took you." He faked a glance at his watch. "About a minute. Would you mind telling me why you haven't discharged Mr. Thompson yet?"  
  
"I'm still waiting on some lab results," answered Luka, looking straight into the eyes of the little man.  
  
"So you DID order them."  
  
Luka sustained Romano's look squarely.  
  
"I can't rule out an internal bleeding on the basis of an abdominal X-ray."  
  
"So that's why you practise a five hundred dollar exam on a homeless man against the express orders of your immediate superior?"  
  
"Isn't this a public hospital?"  
  
"I'm sure you must be nostalgic for the good old days comrade, but I've got news for you: communism is over. Things are not like in former Yugoslavia anymore. Get over it."  
  
Luka suddenly saw red. He hovered over Romano and clutched his crutches with all his strength, trying to overcome the irresistible impulse to knock the other doctor down. He set his jaw tight, and when he thought he could manage an answer without grabbing Romano by lab coat lapels and throwing him against the wall, he took a controlled breath.  
  
"What the hell do YOU know?" He hissed.  
  
"Nothing. Just as much as YOU know about hospital budgets," Romano hissed back. "But you should follow the orders of a superior."  
  
"It is MY patient."  
  
"Not any more, Kovac. You're suspended."  
  
"You can't do that."  
  
"Oh, yes. I can. I can also."  
  
Luka turned briskly around, cutting off whatever Romano intended to say and walked down the corridor.  
  
"Fine," he shouted over his shoulder. "Call me when I'm due back." 


	13. Chapter 13

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
  
First and foremost: Thanks to Ms. Eyre and Amanda, who betaed this chapter.  
  
Second: I'm sorry it took me so long to post these last two chapters. Real life and technology (my computer) got in the way. I hope you haven't forgotten the whole story by now. . .  
  
And last but not least: Is anybody out there?????????  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
Susan stopped the car and looked up at the building. There were some massive stairs leading into it. She counted the steps. About twelve. She cursed mentally for not having taken them into account before. The room where the book club meetings took place was in the ground floor, but those stairs would pose quite a challenge to an already reluctant Luka. They would give him yet another excuse not to get out of the car. It had taken her over a week to convince him to get out of his apartment and to attend the book club meeting. She had been there a couple of times, and it had seemed to her that the gatherings were quite friendly. They were held by a German Literature teacher from Chicago University, and the books they were discussing were mostly nineteenth century novels, the kind Luka loved. Susan was convinced he had to find some activities to pursue out of his apartment while he was suspended, otherwise he'd plunge back into the depression he'd been suffering from before getting to work.  
  
"Well, it's here," she said with an encouraging smile.  
  
"Twelve steps," marked Luka, looking at the building's façade.  
  
"Oh, come on. They're nothing. And Jack said..."  
  
"Look, Susan. It's already ten past seven, and it'll take me at least five minutes to climb them. I don't want to be that late."  
  
"Are you always that punctilious? The meetings are very relaxed, you know. It doesn't matter if you're a bit late."  
  
"Can't we leave it like that? I promise I'll come next week. On time." Luka's voice was half pleading, half annoyed.  
  
Susan regarded him with a stern eye, while she inwardly prayed he wouldn't get mad at her. She really didn't have any right to press the book club on Luka.  
  
But instead, he seemed a bit abashed at his evident lie. He wasn't even thinking about coming back next week. He sighed, opened the door of the car and took his crutches out.  
  
"All right..."  
  
Susan flashed him a smile.  
  
"I'll pick you up in an hour."  
  
He nodded. He got out of the car and slammed the door, and then made his way towards the building. She watched him climb the first steps before she started the engine and drove away. She didn't want to hover over him as if she was a mistrustful mother hen.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
At twenty past eight, she was parked in the same spot, wondering where Luka was. She had been there on time but nobody had come out of the building. She had thought they had maybe been talking about something interesting and had extended the meeting a few minutes. But now it was late. She was considering getting out of the car to check the meeting room when a tap on the car window on her side startled her. It was Luka.  
  
"I was wondering whether I should report you missing," she said, as she rolled down the window. And then she spotted the man standing beside Luka. "Uh, hello, professor..." She blushed. She had forgotten the name.  
  
"Perkins. Daniel Perkins. I'm sorry I kidnapped your friend for a cup of coffee."  
  
"It's all right," she said. She was about to add that he had usually been kidnapped for much more than a cup of coffee in the past, but restrained herself. Bantering about each other's sexual life had long since been a common issue between them, but she didn't need to drag third parties to it.  
  
Professor Perkins shook Luka's hand.  
  
"Nice meeting you, Dr. Kovac. I really enjoyed our little talk. See you tomorrow, then?"  
  
"Yes, professor. Nice meeting you too." Luka shook Professor Perkins's hand and then made his way round the car.  
  
"What was that about?" Asked Susan when he was finally sitting beside her.  
  
Luka looked at her innocently.  
  
"What was what about?"  
  
"Oh, come on, Luka."  
  
He looked down to hide his smile. He seemed embarrassed.  
  
"I... I never made it to the meeting, you know," he started.  
  
She looked at him, shocked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Huh... Susan," Luka pointed forward, to make her focus on the street. When they came to a red light, she turned towards him.  
  
"So how come you ended up having coffee with Professor Perkins?"  
  
"Well, I was waiting for you and freezing my ass off in the street when I decided I could might as well wait in the hall... I just had to leave little before they finished. But they finished early and the Professor spotted me in the hall. Your description of me must have been pretty accurate."  
  
He signalled the red light which had already turned to green. Susan accelerated.  
  
"So, what did you tell him about you not coming?"  
  
"I told him I'm not fond of crowds."  
  
"Really, Luka, twelve people is hardly a crowd."  
  
"And I told him you had talked me into it, and that I had freaked at the last minute."  
  
Susan closed her mouth when she realised she was gaping. She could listen to Luka's silent chuckle.  
  
"And what did he say?"  
  
"That you had made that same impression on him."  
  
"What impression?"  
  
"Of being persistent... Susan, you can close your mouth now."  
  
"Well... eh... huh..."  
  
"It was a joke, Susan."  
  
Susan tried a smile, but it wasn't very convincing.  
  
"He's a nice man, though," continued Luka. "He tried to sell the book club to me himself, but wasn't annoyed when I didn't give in."  
  
"So, what's the story about tomorrow?"  
  
"He's coming over for coffee."  
  
"Coming over for WHAT?"  
  
Luka grinned.  
  
"I told him I had a copy of the first German edition of 'The Magic Mountain'."  
  
Susan watched him with a naughty smile. That sounded like one more of Luka's jokes. He'd burst out with the strangest of things in the most serious tone, so you'd believe anything he said.  
  
"And do you? Or are you trying to cheat the poor man?"  
  
"Susan, I'm hurt. Do you believe I would..."  
  
Luka stopped in the middle of his mock complaint, when he saw Susan's expression.  
  
"No, really, I do. It was one of Milan's treasures. He sent it with my father."  
  
Susan raised his brows. That was a great present. According to Luka, his father's friend didn't own many things. Nobody in Luka's circle of acquaintances back home did, he'd told her.  
  
"Wow, what a present."  
  
Luka nodded, silently. She pulled the car over in front of Luka's building. Luka turned towards her.  
  
"Would you like to have some coffee?"  
  
"I'd love to. But I have an early shift tomorrow..."  
  
She regretted having said that instantly. Luka had been having a bad case of cabin fever ever since he'd been suspended. He couldn't make himself get out of the apartment, and yet he hated being there. Going to work had been the only thing that had kept him going for so many years that it seemed to be a hard habit to break for him. When his sick leave had been about to end, he had even called Romano to get back to work. Not that Luka had ever told her, but Susan had figured it out in one of her bantering rounds with Romano some weeks ago. The little tyrant surely had known how to get to Luka by suspending him.  
  
"All right."  
  
He opened the door and started getting out of the car.  
  
"Thanks for the ride," he said, turning towards her.  
  
"How about a movie tomorrow evening?"  
  
"As long as it is NOT Star Wars..."  
  
"Well, we could go to the movies instead of renting something," she suggested, hoping, although she found it highly unlikely, he'd accept.  
  
He considered it for a minute.  
  
"All right," he said in the end. "If you can find a theatre with no stairs..."  
  
"I can," she assured him.  
  
He got out of the car and was about to close the door when she called him back.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What about Professor Perkins?"  
  
"Ah, he's not a problem. He'll be here at three. I don't think he'll be staying that long. What time are you coming?"  
  
"How about seven?"  
  
"Great. Good night, Susan."  
  
This time she waited until he climbed the few stairs to the entrance and opened the front door.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
Luka was sitting on one of the stools in curtain one. He looked up briefly from the chart and had a bite of a donut from a pack on the suture cart beside him. He wasn't supposed to go over his charts there, and least of all with a cup of coffee and donuts, but he'd found it was more comfortable for his leg to sit on the high stools they used for examining patients than in the sofa in the lounge. He could prop the chart between his lap and the side of the bed and it was just the right height. Besides, things in the ER were really slow that morning, and he wanted to avoid running into Romano at all costs.  
  
He'd got back to work three days before, after a brief message left in his answering machine, and he'd been lucky enough to get different shifts from those of the chief of the ER. He'd run the board with Carter or Susan, and had been simply delighted to be able to do his job without having to see the little tyrant. A voice in the back of his mind had whispered that since Romano fixed the shifts of all the people in the ER he'd probably done that on purpose, giving him respite from his nagging for some days, but he'd always dismissed the thought as utter nonsense. And yes, the period of relief had been all too short. That day Romano was due to start his shift a couple of hours after Luka came in, so they'd coincide at least part of the day. Luka restrained a sigh and went back to his chart, after having a sip of coffee.  
  
"Please, change into this gown and sit on the bed. A doctor will see you right away."  
  
Malik's voice, together with the squeak of the tires of a wheelchair against the polished floor was suddenly heard.  
  
"Am I supposed to change clothes in HERE? Haven't you got any sense of decency, young man?"  
  
"I'll draw the curtains for you."  
  
"But this is the middle of the hall!"  
  
"I'll ensure your privacy, ma'am."  
  
"This is an outrage!"  
  
The clinking of the rings of the curtain followed. Apparently Malik had chosen to end the argument there. Luka laughed under his breath. He wondered who would be the poor wretch that would get to see the old lady. Five minutes later, a voice boomed out from behind the curtain. Luka's grin widened.  
  
"So, Mrs... Hansen, what seems to be the problem today?"  
  
Silence. And then:  
  
"Are YOU a doctor?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am. Dr. Romano at your service. Now, if you'd only tell me..."  
  
"But you can surely not examine me with..."  
  
"I assure you, ma'am, I can. What's the problem, then?"  
  
Romano's voice held a bit of sharpness, but otherwise it was extremely calm. Unusually calm. Luka's smile had frozen on his lips.  
  
"Listen, young man, You..."  
  
There was a clatter on the floor and then the lady's voice:  
  
"You can't even hold the chart!"  
  
Luka let his own chart down and grabbed his crutches. He had heard enough. No one deserved this. Not even Romano. He stood up. But then, he thought, Romano had the quickest mouth he'd ever known. He could surely get through this by himself. He heard how the doctor picked up the chart, and wondered why he hadn't said anything yet.  
  
"I don't want you to examine me," continued the lady.  
  
There was a silence. Why hadn't Romano snapped on the old lady yet?  
  
"Haven't you got a healthy doctor around?"  
  
Another brief silence. And then:  
  
"No, we haven't." Romano lifted his eyes at the sound of the thick accented voice and the curtains being cast to one side. "It's either the solo armed doctor or the one on crutches."  
  
Luka was facing the lady squarely. The woman's jaw dropped. She didn't manage a word.  
  
"Would you like me to take over, Dr. Romano?"  
  
"Sure, be my guest."  
  
Romano handed him the chart. Luka looked at it.  
  
"Huh, Dr..." Luka cringed, expecting the next name Romano's prejudiced and seemingly inexhaustible imagination would draw out.  
  
"Dr. Kovac..."  
  
Luka looked up, unable to hide his surprise. There was a big grin pasted on Romano's face.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"There's... huh... chocolate on your chin."  
  
Romano's grin had got even wider, if possible. He was glaring at him not with his usual withering stare, but with an open, amused look.  
  
"Well, thank you Dr. Romano," he said, wiping his chin with his fingertips.  
  
Was the gurgling sound that came from where Romano was standing a quiet chuckle? Well, his shoulders were shaking slightly. Luka rubbed his chin more than necessary, desperately trying not to burst into laughter himself.  
  
He looked down at the chart again.  
  
"So, Mrs. Hansen. You were complaining of a stomach ache..."  
  
When he lifted his gaze, the woman was still staring at him and Romano was nowhere to be seen.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
"Call Kovac," Romano's command resounded like a bang against the walls of the trauma room.  
  
"Dr. Romano I'm sure I can..." Neela tried to reply. Romano hovered over the little girl on the table, her sats quickly dropping. Romano chose to ignore his medical student.  
  
"We're not taking any risks here. Run!" he replied, glaring at Chuny.  
  
Chuny cast a glance at Susan, who was still sitting with her head between her knees and started her way out.  
  
She heard the rest of the sentence as she the doors of the trauma room slammed behind her, so loud was the voice of the Chief of the ER: "Tell him to fly!"  
  
Luka hurried down the hall, with Chuny in tow. She rushed past him and held the doors of the trauma room open for him. There was a little girl on the table, her chest cracked open. The monitor was giving out a loud, steady beep.  
  
An expression of relief washed over Romano's face when he spotted Luka, but he immediately hid it behind a wicked grin.  
  
"Geez, Kovac. Next time I'll send you a scooter."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"There's a leak in her hylum," explained Romano briefly, as Luka put his gloves on.  
  
Luka glanced over to the chief of staff and the student on the other side of the table. He spotted Susan, sitting by the wall behind them. She seemed at the verge of fainting. What was wrong with her? Then his attention turned to the two doctors opposite him. Neela seemed frustrated. Luka was sure she'd been able to perform the procedure with Romano's guidance, though it was a delicate one. He was, after all, a brilliant surgeon, and despite his snapping temper had got really good at teaching. He was tough and demanding and held no pity for mistakes, but his explanations of procedures were always clear and to the point. And he wasn't exactly noted for his willingness to recur to other doctors. Why on earth had he called him? It took less than a second for the thoughts to reel in Luka's mind, but Romano was already glaring at him.  
  
"Come on!" He barked. "We haven't got all day!"  
  
Luka got closer to the table. He hadn't handled a trauma since he'd started working again. He got the instruments and started repairing the leak, trying, at the same time, to hold his crutches under his armpits and to get the right angle over the board. It wasn't easy. The trauma boards had always been a bit low for him and he'd always been forced to lean over them. One of his crutches slipped and fell to the floor. Romano gave out a coloured four letter word.  
  
"For heaven's sake, let them drop, Kovac!"  
  
Luka let go the other one and leant all his weight on his right leg. He finished repairing the injury. He was about to ask for the syringe when it popped up in front of him. Romano was holding it. Luka took it with a nod of acknowledgment and inserted it in the girl's heart carefully while he heard Romano's steady voice giving an un-asked-for explanation to Neela.  
  
She wouldn't have dared to ask what Luka was doing, but still she'd profit from the description. And then a memory came as a flash to Luka. The same problem, the same procedure, Kerry and Harkins hovering over him while he repaired the injury. When he had drawn the air, he retrieved the needle. The girl's heart started to beat again and Neela and the nurses took a deep breath. Luka looked up.  
  
"Let's get her to the OR," said Romano. "Bag her."  
  
Neela complied and held the bag while Haleh and Romano pushed the gurney out of the trauma room. Chuny picked up the crutches for Luka, while he took off his gloves.  
  
Dr. Romano lingered briefly on the threshold.  
  
"It seems you've just got another patient, Dr. Kovac. Take care of her, will you?" He said, thrusting his chin rudely at Susan.  
  
Luka nodded, and Romano gave a step out.  
  
"Dr. Romano..." Luka called after him. The little doctor stopped, still holding the door open with his shoulder.  
  
"Why did you call me?"  
  
"We needed a steady pair of hands, Kovac," answered Romano glancing down the hall and made a pause.  
  
He faced Luka again. "And rumours DO spread in the leper colony. I'd heard of your skills with a needle."  
  
And then he disappeared through the doors of the trauma room. Luka stared at the doors for a moment. This was not the arrogant, self-centered surgeon he'd worked with in the past few years. It wasn't the frustrated, bitter man that had started his career as ER chief nagging and flouting his staff. Luka came to think that back then Romano hadn't known much about emergency medicine, but now he was deft and expedient in handling most of the cases. He must have been trying to catch up with the latest advancements in the area. He'd also developed a better relationship with most of the staff. He was still regarded as an outsider, but the former tense relationship had eased down a lot. Sometimes he'd even tried some light hearted teasing among his sarcastic remarks. It seemed as if Romano had managed to carry on with his life. Luka sighed, pulled himself out of his reverie, and got closer to Susan.  
  
"Hey," he whispered. Susan looked up at him. She was very pale.  
  
"You'd think I was a first year medical student," she commented. "Fainting in the middle of a trauma. What a shame..."  
  
Luka watched her sternly.  
  
"When did you last eat?"  
  
Susan gave him a sheepish smile.  
  
"Gee, Luka. You sound just like..." she made a pause, but then she finished her sentence.  
  
"Like Mark when he was patronising."  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
Luka didn't feel any pain. He didn't notice anything until it was too late. He just felt the pull on his left leg and suddenly lost his balance, his right knee and wrist taking the full blow of his weight against the floor. He was shocked into stillness for a minute.  
  
"Dr. Kovac! What happened?"  
  
Yosh had stopped pushing the gurney and was hovering over him. The patient he had started to roll out of curtain three on his way up radiology was staring at Luka.  
  
"Nothing," he said. "I must have lost my balance. Help me up."  
  
He grabbed Yosh's hand and dragged himself to his feet. He tried not to grimace when the pull caused a sharp pain on his right wrist. Yosh spotted it, however.  
  
"Why don't you sit there a little?" he asked, pointing at the other bed. "I'll come back with Mr. Stevens in a minute."  
  
Luka nodded. His right knee throbbed painfully when he leant his weight on it. He cursed mentally. He really didn't need a sprained wrist or an injured knee right now. Yosh was about to go out of the room when Luka called him.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Just don't... Just don't tell anybody. I'm fine, Okay?"  
  
"Okay, Dr. Kovac."  
  
He went out of the room while Luka sat on the other bed. He rubbed his right wrist and turned his hand a little, probing the level of pain. It didn't look all that bad. It was maybe not sprained. After all, he'd had a few falls during the last weeks and none had had grave consequences.  
  
He pushed himself a bit higher on the bed and then he noticed some moisture on his left hand. He looked down and swore, this time out loud. Blood was oozing from one of the pins on his left leg. He opened up the Velcro seam on his pants to have a look at it. Suddenly, the door to the exam room slammed open.  
  
"So, what kind of trouble have you got yourself into this time, Kovac?"  
  
Luka cursed Yosh's mother and every one of his ancestors up to the tenth generation when he saw Doctor Romano coming in. He threw his lab coat over his left leg.  
  
"Nothing," he replied gruffly.  
  
Romano regarded him with a critical eye.  
  
"Come on, Kovac. I thought you could do better than that."  
  
Luka looked at him squarely.  
  
"And you should have already found out by now that your stares do not reduce anything to ashes. Where did you hit yourself?"  
  
Luka sighed. It didn't matter how much he protested or cursed, Romano wasn't going to give up on examining him. And then the rumour would spread all over the ER like wildfire and there would be a crowd fussing all over him. He cringed at the thought. Well, maybe if he accepted having hurt his knee, Romano would send him up to radiology without making too much noise. . .  
  
"My knee."  
  
"Roll up your pants."  
  
Luka complied and Romano examined the knee. He examined it and made Luka move his leg a bit.  
  
"It doesn't seem too sore. Do you think we should take an X-ray, or just ice it?"  
  
Luka repressed a sigh of relief.  
  
"Ice it," and then he added under his breath: "We don't want to misuse the budget."  
  
Romano accepted the irony with a curt grin.  
  
"I thought you had gotten over that. But you're an embittered chap. No wonder..." he stopped short.  
  
"What?" Snapped Luka.  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
"Oh, f*** you, Kovac!" Exclaimed Romano while he cast a quick glance at the window. He went towards it and shut the blinds. He turned around and gave Luka a stern look.  
  
"I'm not giving you the pleasure of starting up a fight. Especially not when you're bleeding," he hissed between his teeth.  
  
Luka cast a look at his lab coat. There was a spot on it and it was slowly widening. He cursed under his breath.  
  
"As I see it, Kovac, you only have two options. Either you let me examine you and we can take care of it quietly or I call an Attending to take care of you and Orthopaedics for a consult."  
  
Luka closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. He was trapped. Jesus. Just when he'd been about to get the damn frame off. . .  
  
"So, what's it going to be?"  
  
Luka shoved his lab coat away and opened the rest of the Velcro seam on his pants. He glanced around the room as Romano examined him.  
  
"Does this hurt?"  
  
Luka looked down. Romano was fidgeting with the troublesome pin.  
  
"Kind of."  
  
"Now, THAT'S what I call a precise answer," grunted Romano. But he didn't wait for another one: "Well, Kovac. The pin's off. You need an orthopaedic consult. When were they going to remove the whole thing?"  
  
"The day after tomorrow."  
  
Romano nodded pensively.  
  
"Tell you what. I can stop the bleeding. Then you can drag yourself down the corridor and upstairs. Make a decorous retreat, if you're up to it. I'll get you admitted for the next two days."  
  
"What about the rest of my shift?"  
  
"We'll manage without you. We have done it before, you know..."  
  
"And my shift tomorrow?"  
  
Luka knew his questions bordered on stupidity, but it was the only kind of resistance he could put up at the moment.  
  
Romano looked daggers at him.  
  
"Have you gone daft or what, Kovac?"  
  
Luka sighed and shook his head.  
  
"Glad to know that," growled Romano, and took a box of gloves. He tossed it to Luka, and he rolled a suturing tray towards the bed. Luka took one glove out of the box and Romano held his hand up so Luka could put the glove on.  
  
"Put on a pair yourself. You'll have to give me a hand with this."  
  
Luka complied.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, they were done with it. Luka closed the Velcro over the bandage and was thankful that the blood on his black pants was not too visible. He took his lab coat and folded it so he hid the stain on it, and tossed it over his shoulder. Romano handed him the crutches and Luka stood up. He tried not to wince when he leant on his wrist. It hurt like hell now. Romano watched him inquisitively.  
  
"I think we should go upstairs together," he said. "You can wait in chairs while I get you admitted."  
  
He opened the door and held it while Luka went through it. As soon as they were out, he started bickering. Luka looked at him surprised, and tried not to gape when he caught Romano's wink as he ranted on about a non existent patient whose history Luka was supposed to have been reviewing. Luka did his best not to smile as they walked past the nurse's station. No one would have dared to stop Romano's rant, and the body of the little doctor hid Luka's leg from view. Romano kept on and on until they came to the elevators and Luka struck the button. When the doors opened, Luka came in, but Romano gave a step back, instead, as he finished off his bantering with something about Luka not getting his Green Card renewed if he didn't comply with normal procedures. Luka caught the wink of the chief of the ER as the doors slowly closed, and marvelled again at the slyness of the little tyrant. He'd take the stairs to draw curious looks away.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
Luka sighed in relief when he finally sat down on the hospital bed, on the fourth floor. Romano apparently still had some sort of influence in the hospital, for he had got Luka a bed in the OR floor in fifteen minutes. He had also got a consult with someone from orthopaedics. Luka put his crutches aside and felt his wrist with his left hand. It was a little bit swollen. Damn. If it was sprained, Luka would be facing at least a couple of weeks in a wheelchair, because he wouldn't be able to support himself on crutches. He flinched at the prospect.  
  
The door opened and in came the chief of the ER. Romano tossed a hospital gown at Luka.  
  
"Put this on, Kovac. I also brought these for your knee... and wrist," he said, putting two ice packs on the bed. "I know I shouldn't be wasting hospital budget on you, but I ordered a set of X-rays for them, anyway."  
  
Romano made a pause and when he didn't get a reply, he added:  
  
"Well, I guess that's all. Somebody from radiology will pick you up in a while."  
  
He strode out of the room. He put his hand on the doorknob, but then he turned around and faced the gaping Croatian. Romano tried not to smile.  
  
"Uhm... I'm sure somebody will have to bring you some personal stuff. Who would you like me to tell about your little accident: Carter or Lewis?"  
  
It took Luka a couple of minutes to find his voice.  
  
"Eh... huh... Carter's not on."  
  
Romano nodded.  
  
"Lewis it is, then."  
  
And with that, the chief of the ER opened the door and walked away.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
"Good morning, Dr. Kovac."  
  
Luka winced at the overtly cheerful voice and the sound of the curtains being opened. Oh God. Was he having a bad dream? Was he in the middle of some kind of episode of Post Traumatic Stress? Was he drastically confusing past memories and the present again? He shut his eyes tighter. Whatever was happening, whether it was a dream or an episode of PTSD, he didn't want to be in it.  
  
A hand touched his forearm lightly.  
  
"Come on, I know you're awake. It's a little bit early but your surgery's been rescheduled for 9:00 a.m. today. We'll have to prepare you for it."  
  
THAT was new. Completely new. Luka opened his eyes and carefully surveyed his surroundings. He was in a hospital room, but none he recognised. He looked up at the nurse hovering over him. Those features were familiar. He strained to remember her. Shirley. That was it. She was a nurse from the OR. Then what had happened last night came back to him: the cursed fall; Romano stopping the bleeding; his trip to the fourth floor and Romano getting him admitted; the X-rays and the consult from orthopaedics where it had been established that, fortunately, he hadn't sprained his wrist and that nothing had happened to his legs; Susan stopping by and promising she'd get him some clothes and toiletries from his apartment; Carter's call half an hour later; him lying in bed and wondering what he'd do in hospital for that long, dreading the pity and platitudes his co-workers would shed on him during the next two days; then slowly falling asleep. But what had Shirley just said about surgery?  
  
"Surgery?" he asked in a raspy voice.  
  
Shirley smiled. It certainly took Dr. Kovac long to come to his senses.  
  
"For the removal of your frame, Dr. Kovac. It's been rescheduled. Dr. Gunn will perform it today at 9:00 a.m. We'll have to run some tests before that," she explained, slowly.  
  
Luka cleared his throat, astounded.  
  
"Who rescheduled it?"  
  
Shirley tilted her head to one side. She was sure Dr. Kovac wouldn't believe her, but hell, her former boss had the right to have some credit.  
  
"Dr. Romano talked to Dr. Gunn this morning and found an empty OR."  
  
Luka stared at her.  
  
"Yes, I know, it sounds unbelievable," she said with a chuckle. "But he did. He's got his ways, you know... How's your wrist, by the way?"  
  
Luka looked at it. It was a little bit swollen, and it was sore. He tried drawing a circle with his hand.  
  
"All right, I guess."  
  
"Well, it's just good luck you can give it a short rest. If everything goes as it should, you'll be home this evening. Do you want an ice pack for it? I'll have to get a kit for the exams, so I can get it on my way back."  
  
"Yes, thank you," whispered Luka.  
  
"I'll be right back."  
  
Luka stared at the closed door for a while and then he reached out for the telephone on the nightstand. He dialed the extension of the ER.  
  
"Jerry? This is Dr. Kovac. Is Dr. Carter around?"  
  
He waited by the line.  
  
"Carter? Would you mind giving me a lift home this evening?" Luka smiled when he heard Carter's answer. "Well, yeah, you'll never believe me..." 


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Have I mentioned it before?  
  
A.N. Well, here's the last chapter. I hope you all enjoyed the story. Please, let me know if you did. Let me know if you didn't. Let me know if it was indifferent to you. Feedback is greatly appreciated. It will help me to get an overview of the whole thing!  
  
A special thanks to Amanda, who very kindly accepted to read the story, make enlightening and supporting comments, and correct everything up till the very last chapter.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
Susan looked at Luka with concern as he slowly made his way to the speaker's podium. He had got the frame off his leg a week ago and, though he wasn't the one to admit it, it was clear he was still sore. Jack had started a new PT routine that would allow for Luka's complete recovery, but in the meantime Luka had been advised to use the crutches while his left leg got stronger.  
  
The silence in the room got heavy with expectation as he reached the podium, and Susan winced inwardly. She could almost sense Luka's embarrassment soar as he became the centre of attention of the whole auditorium. Good heavens, these kids could stare! There was nothing as piercing as the morbid curiosity of college students. Well, maybe the curiosity of younger kids was more intense, but then children were children, weren't they? These were young adults and were supposed to have learnt some kind of manners by now. . .  
  
For the hundredth time she wondered why on earth had Luka acquiesced to give this speech. What was in Professor Perkins, what kind of sympathy had he arisen in Luka that he had managed, not only to spend several afternoons with the shy doctor talking about books, but had also succeeded in hauling him out of his apartment to, of all things, give a public speech? Were the old man's powers of conviction so huge? What had he told Luka that he had persuaded him to talk about illness in literature to his students when Luka wouldn't even join the book club? When Luka had invited her to his speech she hadn't believed him. It had taken him over an hour and a threat to call Professor Perkins to convince her that he would deliver a speech on how illness was described in his favourite novels to a bunch of college students.  
  
He'd said he would speak in front of about thirty people, but when they had made it to the auditorium they had found out that it was packed. There were even people sitting on the stairs.  
  
Professor Perkins had met them at the entrance and made his excuses, which were even more energetic when he noticed Luka's discomfort. Professor Perkins had said that word had spread around the college and that he hadn't been able to turn the extra people down. At the panicked look that Luka had cast over the concurrence, Susan had thought he'd turn around and walk away as fast as he could, but after a brief silence and swallowing hard, Luka had assured a very embarrassed professor that it was O.K., that it would be interesting to have such a large audience. He had even managed to smile to the elder man. Susan hadn't been able to believe her own eyes. She had, for the hundredth time, wondered at the kind of empathy that had sprung between the two men while they made their way into the auditorium and to the first row, where Professor Perkins had reserved a couple of seats for them. Susan and Luka had sat down and listened to the brief presentation Professor Perkins made of Luka. Then Luka had stood up, cast a look that betrayed all his panic at Susan, gripped his crutches and made it to the podium.  
  
He had taken a few cards out of his pocket and, after clearing his throat, had started speaking with a faltering voice, stating that he was neither an expert in literature nor a writer, so that he would talk about the things he knew best: illnesses and injuries, the way they had been depicted in some of his favourite novels and the way they were treated in the present. After a couple of coughs he had started talking about the scene in which Prince Andre (or at least that was the name Susan thought she heard) was injured in "War and Peace". Slowly, his voice gained reassurance as he vividly described the scene for them, and then he went on talking about how field hospitals were laid during the Napoleonic wars. Susan found herself turning from deep concern for Luka to a vivid interest for what he was saying, so she really didn't notice how gradually his manner eased, how his voice became more and more firm, and how he started to use his hands to support the emotion that he was trying to convey to his audience. After about fifteen minutes of speaking, Luka came to an abrupt halt. A heavy silence spread across the room and Susan felt a slight void inside her as he cleared his throat again and looked shyly at the concurrence. What had happened? He had been doing so good this far. . .  
  
"I'm sorry," Luka said, starting to blush. "I'm afraid I. . ." He stopped and glanced at the huge table by the podium. There was a glass and a pitcher with water on it, and it seemed to give him an idea. "I need a drink of water."  
  
He put the cards in his pocket, grabbed the crutches and crossed the space towards the table, but instead of taking the pitcher and pouring a glass of water he went round the table and carefully sat on its edge. He left the crutches by his side and leant a bit backwards to reach the pitcher and the glass. After filling the glass, he drank half of the water and then set it on the table.  
  
"Now, where was I?" He asked as if to himself while he drew his hand into his pocket and retrieved his notes again. He glanced at them. "Ah, yes. . . Tolstoy describes. . ."  
  
Susan couldn't help but marvelling at the slyness with which he had driven the attention of the public from his need to sit down to a more innocuous matter as having a drink of water. His ease at restarting his speech had also startled her. Luka certainly had more inner resources than he normally let other people see. Talking to a large crowd seemed to be one of them. Or, maybe, this one hadn't been so hidden, thought Susan when she remembered the determination with which Luka had faced most of County's medical staff when he had talked about his leukaemia patient in the Morbidity and Mortality session. Well, at that time Luka's courageous outburst of sincerity had seemed more a reckless and desperate move than anything else, but hell, he hadn't hesitated to face the judgement of the people he worked with.  
  
Susan chided herself when she noticed her mind had wandered off, and she tried to concentrate again on Luka's talk. Now he had stopped talking about injuries and had moved on to illnesses. What was he talking about now? TB? It had to be. . . he was talking about "The Magic Mountain". Susan hadn't read the book, of course. She hadn't even seen the movie, but she had a rough idea of what the novel was about. She wondered whether Luka would talk about "Doctor Zhivago". She had never really understood what Zhivago had died of at the end of the movie. . .  
  
The audience clapped long after Luka finished, and Susan joined them enthusiastically. She noticed the slight blush that tinted Luka's cheeks and his faltering smile as he awkwardly bowed his head and held his palms up in a vain attempt to stop the clapping. Professor Perkins stood by him and, when the applause receded, thanked him for his speech. He asked the public whether they had any questions, and several hands rose.  
  
Luka pointed to the first to the right, and Susan shook her head, making a mental note to tease him later for having picked the prettiest girl in the room. He answered the girl's question (one about TB in late nineteenth century European literature) gracefully, saying that he, of course, was not an expert on the subject, but listing the few novels he could think of that treated the subject.  
  
The next question was posed by a middle aged woman, obviously a college teacher, and it caught Susan off guard.  
  
"Dr. Kovac, I would like to thank you for your very enlightening speech. . ." She began.  
  
Luka ducked his head in another slight bow, silently thanking her for her compliment. However, what at first had seemed to be a praise, soon turned into its opposite.  
  
"Your pick on literature was very enlightening, indeed. I would like to note that among the authors you chose there wasn't a single woman, or a member of any minority. Why do you think that might be?"  
  
"Uh. . ." Luka faltered, and took a hand to the back of his head. "I don't know."  
  
He smiled.  
  
"Must be coincidental," he continued. "I just picked up the books I liked the most. I'm not an expert, just someone who likes reading."  
  
"And, since your pick excluded women and other identities. . . Wouldn't you say that your vision on literature is a little biased?"  
  
The cool manner in which the woman uttered the words made Susan want to strangle her. Luka's forehead creased.  
  
"Biased?" he repeated, confused.  
  
"Like. . . In mirroring a definite set of social principles?" Despite the intonation, she was not posing a question but making a statement.  
  
Luka's expression changed from bafflement to slight irritation.  
  
"And what would that set of principles be?" he asked.  
  
"Well, those sustained by our Western, white, male and heterosexually dominated society. Novels written by women and members of minorities challenge those values and therefore illness is depicted somewhat differently in them."  
  
Luka stared at the woman for a little while, and Professor Perkins cleared his throat, evidently wanting to intercede in the discussion.  
  
"Professor Davidson, thank you for your intervention, but I think that debate is not relevant for the present talk. Dr. Kovac is presenting a personal view upon. . ."  
  
"And why would it be irrelevant?" The woman interrupted him. "Dr. Kovac is not an academic, and thus presents his points of view as if they were not prejudiced, but in the truth his personal view is based upon a set of dominant values that should be challenged."  
  
"Excuse me," Luka interrupted raising one hand, his forehead knit together. "You mean that I sustain values that go against minorities and women?"  
  
"I wouldn't put it that way," said Professor Davidson. "I just said. . ."  
  
"But you implied it," Luka retorted, an undertone of irritation straining his voice. "And I honestly don't know which grounds you might have to sustain that, when you don't know me. I might be a man and white, but I also belong to a minority. One that was almost wiped out during the Serbo- Croatian war, for that matter."  
  
Luka's eyes were now burning with a deep menace. Susan could almost touch the tension in the room, so deep was the silence that spread across it, and the intensity in Luka's eyes. Then Luka closed them and wiped his forehead with a hand. He sighed, lifted his sight and smiled wearily.  
  
"Any more questions?" he asked, glancing around the room.  
  
A young man raised his hand, and Luka gestured towards him. Susan hoped the question wouldn't be about Luka's origin or his experiences during the war. His sudden outburst had been successful in cutting short the distressing argument and bringing this annoying woman's bragging down, but it surely had drawn the attention of the audience to a subject Luka was not eager to discuss. Luckily, the young man's question had something to do with treatment of injuries during the nineteenth century, and after that nobody made any more questions. The atmosphere in the room was still tense, though Professor Perkins's renewed thanks to his guest and a brief applause did a lot to ease it down.  
  
Susan regretted that Luka's talk had ended with that note. It was the first time she knew he had agreed upon talking about something that interested him on a personal level to a group of people he didn't know, the first time he had made the effort to share a bit of himself that went beyond his professional skills, and it had turned out this way. With a sigh, Susan stood up and carried Luka's coat to him, and just got in time to hear Professor Perkins apologising again for his colleague's rash behaviour and Luka insisting that he shouldn't worry about it. Susan noted that, despite his efforts to be affable, Luka's smile didn't reach his eyes. There was something troubled in them. They slowly made their way out of the auditorium, and Luka and Susan said goodbye to Professor Perkins at the entrance.  
  
They had crossed the hallway and had almost got out of the building when a voice called from behind them.  
  
"Dr. Kovac!"  
  
They turned around to face Professor Davidson. Susan restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. Geez. Didn't this woman know when to keep at bay? She was advancing towards them, a hand extended, an air of irritating confidence about her.  
  
"Let me introduce myself. I'm Professor Sarah Davidson. I hope the little discussion we had back there didn't annoy you too much. Academic life, you know, is full of debate."  
  
Susan couldn't believe it. This woman wasn't even apologising about her rudeness. . . Luka shook the woman's hand and then coolly introduced Susan.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Lewis." After shaking Susan's hand briefly, Professor Davidson's attention turned towards Luka again. She was all business. "You're from former Yugoslavia, Dr. Kovac?"  
  
Luka nodded, a guarded look in his eyes.  
  
"I'm currently teaching a seminar on Civilisation and Barbarism, and we're commenting on civil wars. I was wondering whether you'd like to come to one of our sessions."  
  
"What for?" Luka asked, curtly.  
  
Susan couldn't blame him for his animosity. How could this woman have the guts to ask him to talk in her seminar when she had tried to harass him in front of a large audience?  
  
"To share your experiences during the Serbo-Croatian war," she replied, as bluntly.  
  
"There's nothing to tell."  
  
"Sure there is. And a course seminar is the place to consider and rationalize."  
  
Susan felt her own cheeks burn. She couldn't believe this woman was daring to be patronising. She glanced over at Luka. Now his expression was hard.  
  
"I'm not interested."  
  
Professor Davidson was not taken aback by Luka's harshness. She took a card out of her wallet and gave it to Luka.  
  
"Well, here's my card, in case you change your mind. You might probably want to join the seminary before talking yourself. . ."  
  
Susan marvelled again at her lack of tact and hard skin. It was as if she believed she had the right to prod into Luka's past, as if she thought of herself as holding the key to some kind of ultimate truth which Luka was unable to find for himself.  
  
Luka, always the gentleman, took the card and nodded, shook the woman's hand and briefly said good bye, but as soon as they were out of the building, Susan saw, out of the corner of her eye, how he drew his hand into his pocket, took the card out, squeezed it and discarded it. His face was closed now; brows closely knit together, eyes darkened by something she couldn't spell out. She noticed he had grown paler, and he swallowed hard as if he was feeling sick.  
  
"What a cheek."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"This professor. What was her name?"  
  
Luka shrugged. Susan noticed that her words were of some help.  
  
"I don't know. Davis?"  
  
"Whatever. What a bitch."  
  
Luka sighed.  
  
"I hadn't expected to come across this in a university. . ." He commented, wearily.  
  
Susan stopped.  
  
"Had you had this kind of conversation before?"  
  
Luka stared at her, seemingly surprised by Susan's astonishment.  
  
"Why, of course. . ."  
  
"With whom?"  
  
"Journalists, mainly. Psychiatrists. . ." He trailed off.  
  
He was too tactful to name prying acquaintances eager to know all the awful details of what he had gone through, Susan thought. She felt embarrassed. She had, herself, also wondered at what he had experienced during the war, wanting to understand what had made him the man he now was. However, she had felt that her honest interest on him was sometimes difficult to disentangle from a morbid curiosity and had therefore never dared to ask, wondering, instead, if her silence was being read as a lack of concern, on her part, to an important part of his past. Whichever option she chose, it seemed, it would always be the wrong one. She smiled awkwardly. But her embarrassment was overrun by her indignation at imagining how many times had Luka been subjected to this kind of harassment.  
  
"Seems that vultures fly all over the place," she commented.  
  
Luka looked over at her, an eyebrow raised, a quizzical expression on his face.  
  
"Geez, Susan, what kind of words are those?"  
  
"Which words?"  
  
"Bitch. . . vultures. . ."  
  
Now he was smiling. Part of the tension had eased from his eyes. She smiled back.  
  
"Oh, come on. Have you turned into some kind of saint now? I've heard much worse from you."  
  
"No, you haven't."  
  
"Of course I have!" Susan protested as punched him lightly in the arm and quickly moved away, to avoid him punching back.  
  
"Ouch! Take care! I'm a poor invalid, you know. . ." Luka whimpered.  
  
"Invalid, my grandma," Susan replied, and she heard his quiet chuckle as she rummaged in her purse in search for her car keys.  
  
What she didn't calculate was how fast had Luka become on his crutches, so she wasn't able to avoid the clean swat on her head a second later.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
Luka went ahead of Carter and Susan and pushed the door open. He nodded towards them to urge them to enter the small local. Carter, always gentlemanly, pushed Susan gently by the elbow and elicited a mischievous smile from her.  
  
"Are you two on some kind of competence?"  
  
They both smiled, and Carter made the attempt to step back to let Luka in first, but Luka pushed his back with the hand that was holding the cane while he supported himself on the door handle. HE was the host tonight and he'd make sure his guests got the best attention.  
  
They were here to celebrate he had finally gotten off the crutches. The day before, Carter and Susan had officially presented Luka with a very beautiful wooden cane to replace the aluminium and plastic one he'd got from the hospital two days before.  
  
Luka had accepted it with a shy smile and with a high measure of embarrassment. He liked the cane much better than the other one: he liked the elegant line and the polished dark wood. It was also the perfect measure for him to lay part of his weight on it without straining too much. It must have been custom made. Carter and Susan had put a whole lot of effort in picking it up, as he had found out of their bantering about how much fun they had had in the shop.  
  
Luka was honoured, so he had decided to give into Susan's suggestion they finally had some Croatian food and he had invited them to the best Croatian restaurant he knew in town. Sure, the appearance of the small local didn't give out how good was the food they served and he hadn't been there for years, but Tata had all but sung the praise and glory of the place when he'd taken Gillian there for dinner.  
  
Gillian. Luka felt a sharp pain, as the sting of a needle, at the thought of her. He had called her mother's on Christmas day, after having spent the whole morning trying to convince himself that it was just normal for an old acquaintance to try to locate her at her mother's during the holiday season to wish her a merry Christmas. Besides, he'd told himself, she would definitely be there, wouldn't she?  
  
The warmth he still felt inside him after his long talk with Tata on Christmas Eve and the Christmas breakfast with Susan had been the reason why he had been completely caught off guard by the icy tone of the woman who had answered him. She had hurried to make him clear that she hadn't heard from her daughter in some time and didn't expect to hear from her in the near future. Luka hadn't even dared to ask whether she would tell her he had called. He had hung up the phone feeling numb, all the previous warmth inside of him dissipated. He berated himself. He had definitely let himself get carried away with the season's spirit. How could he have ever imagined she would care for him after the way he had treated her? How could he have doubted that her giving her mother's phone number had been but a discreet way of definitely parting from him? Well, he repeated to himself for the hundredth time while shaking his head and coming into the restaurant, he now had finally found out where he stood on relation to Gillian. She had obviously not been interested in hearing from him again in her life and he could just stop playing the fool and move on.  
  
He shrugged off his coat while he tried to ignore the blank disappointment hidden behind his thoughts, and signaled to the waiter. The man came over to them and Luka asked him about his reservation. As soon as he heard Luka's last name, he switched to Croatian. He only asked the customary questions: where did Luka came from in Croatia, how long had he been living in the States, did he like it? But the dialogue extended over the time where he showed them to their table and gave them their menus, and though the man was kind enough to both Carter and Susan, Luka was chagrined. He considered as a lack of politeness to leave people out in the dark by speaking a language they didn't master. He'd been too many times in the same situation so he knew exactly how uncomfortable it was to try to keep a smile on your face while people around you chatted away. He smiled sheepishly to Carter and Susan when the guy finally left.  
  
"Sorry about that," he said.  
  
"Never mind," was Susan's answer. "It must be nice to get to speak your mother tongue from time to time."  
  
She had followed attentively the brief interchange between Luka and the waiter and had marveled again at how easy it was for Luka to express himself in his own language. Whenever he spoke English there was a strain in his voice, as if he always had to think twice to come across the right words. Whenever he switched back to his mother tongue, Luka's voice seemed to gain an emotional tint that lacked when he spoke English. She distinctly remembered the time they had learnt about Mark's death, when they had gathered in the Hawaiian bar. Luka had toasted to Mark in Croatian. Back then, there had been a kind of warmth in the unknown words that had somehow soothed Susan, though she had never found out what they meant.  
  
"Is there anything you'd recommend?" asked Carter, studying the menu with a frown, and Luka smiled.  
  
Though Carter was a cosmopolitan through and through, Croatian food was all too specialized for him.  
  
"Well, let me see... Would you prefer beef of fish?"  
  
"Beef!" Susan and Carter chorused at the same time, and Luka couldn't avoid chuckling.  
  
"Well then, there's. . ." Luka proceeded to explain the menu to them. After he was done with the main courses he attacked the part of the appetizers, and when he finally lifted his gaze he found Carter and Susan staring blankly at their menus.  
  
"Oh, come on," he protested. "It's not that complicated."  
  
They both looked back at him, then at each other. Susan shrugged and sighed, and put her menu down.  
  
"I'll just let you choose for me, Luka," she said.  
  
"Same here," Carter agreed.  
  
Luka lifted his eyebrows, mocking disbelief.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah, but you'll have to cover for us if you get us intoxicated," Susan warned.  
  
"Are you ready to order?" asked the waiter.  
  
A moment later Luka was done with ordering a banquet and was refusing valiantly Susan's and Carter's menaces to make him confess what would they eat. Luckily, the waiter was rapidly back with a bottle of wine and three glasses and that served as a distraction.  
  
"So. . ." Susan started. "Did Abby get stuck in the OR again?"  
  
Carter grimaced in disgust. Abby's OR rotation was falling tough on her. This guy Edson was worse than Romano, it seemed. Not only was he happy harassing and humiliating medical students, especially if they were women, but he had also an oversized good opinion of himself. And he didn't even have Romano's excuse: he wasn't the stunningly superb surgeon the little tyrant had been.  
  
"She had to monitor one of her earlier patients. She'll be up all night," Carter answered.  
  
"Ah, nothing like being a med student to wreck your schedule. . ." Susan commented.  
  
"Or an ER doctor. . ." Luka intervened.  
  
"Oh, don't complain. You've still got it the easy way out," Susan scolded him.  
  
Luka grinned guiltily at her under half risen eyebrows. Susan was right. He had just begun working full time, and Romano hadn't given him any graveyard shifts yet. Not that Luka minded working during the night, he had never slept much anyway, but during these past weeks the regular schedule had been having a calming effect on him. He had started sleeping four or five hours in a row, instead of his usual two.  
  
"Not for long, though," Carter said. "Romano noticed your last scheme pal."  
  
"What scheme?" Susan asked, and Luka sipped his wine faking innocence while Carter took up the cue and told Susan the story.  
  
"Remember the appendicitis case Edson ruled out yesterday without even looking at the guy?"  
  
Susan nodded.  
  
"Luka asked Romano for a SECOND opinion without telling him Edson had been down to the ER. Romano took the matters in his hands, called Corday, took the guy upstairs, and bumped into Edson, Corday AND Anspaugh in the OR. Hell ensued. Edson got a formal reprimand for not fulfilling his duties as the surgeon on guard."  
  
"Really? That was great, Luka! I always knew we could trust you!"  
  
Luka nodded, pleased to see Susan's wicked grin. The three of them had been quite annoyed at the treatment Abby was getting from Edson and had spent more than a coffee break devising strategies to humiliate him and avenge Abby. They hadn't had many chances up till then.  
  
"But Romano got a formal reprimand as well for judging an OR case."  
  
"Ouch," Susan grimaced. That was, probably, Romano's weakest spot, not being allowed to judge on any OR case anymore, when he had spent most of his medical career as a surgeon.  
  
"So my enhanced powers of premonition tell me that we won't be working any graveyard shifts next week, Susan. Zhivago will take over."  
  
"Ha, ha," Luka said, without much enthusiasm.  
  
He still hadn't been able to make Carter stop calling him Zhivago. Luckily, Carter kept his nickname strictly out of the boundaries of the ER. Luka didn't want to imagine what would Romano's perverse mind do with it if he ever found out.  
  
"Want more wine?" he asked, taking the bottle.  
  
"Yeah," Susan answered, standing up. "I'll take a trip to the ladies room."  
  
Luka poured some wine in Carter's glass while she walked away. They lifted their glasses and toasted silently. Then the door of the restaurant opened and Carter looked up. Two other customers, a couple in their mid thirties, were coming in. They greeted the waiter loudly in Croatian while they unbuttoned their coats. The waiter smiled to them, and then opened the door to the kitchen and called inside. A couple of minutes later, an elderly woman came out of the kitchen wiping her hands in her apron, went round the counter and hugged the couple. She took their coats and waved them to a nearby table, talking animatedly. Carter looked back at Luka and was stunned. Luka was staring fixedly at the tablecloth, gripping his glass with one hand. His knuckles where white and his face was almost contorted in pain.  
  
"Luka. . ." Carter called out to him.  
  
He got no answer. He reached over the table and leaned a hand over Luka's forearm.  
  
"Hey, Luka."  
  
After a second, Luka looked at him. He seemed to make an effort to focus.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Is there something wrong?"  
  
Luka shook his head. He swallowed and managed a weak smile.  
  
"No. . . It's just. . ." He seemed unable to continue. He closed his eyes and ducked his head, as if he was trying to avoid the rest of the people in the restaurant looking at him.  
  
"Something about that couple?"  
  
Luka wet his lips, but he couldn't speak. He nodded weakly.  
  
"Something about the war?"  
  
Luka nodded again, grabbing the chance Carter had unwittingly opened to divert the conversation from the real source of his shock. Carter was silent. It was his way of showing concern and sympathy for whatever Luka had gone through during the war, and Luka was thankful for the brief respite. He didn't trust himself to articulate anything coherent just then, much less to answer any questions. Oh, God. Had he heard right? Weren't his senses deceiving him? No, he had definitely heard the whole conversation between the owner of the restaurant and these two new customers. Part of it was still replaying in his head:  
  
"And tell me, Marija, how's your Canadian been?" the man asked.  
  
"She's not MY Canadian, Matej."  
  
"Yeah, well, sure. You've done everything but adopted her already. Has she learnt a lot of Croatian lately?"  
  
"Of course she has. She's a bright girl."  
  
"No chance of bumping into her tonight?"  
  
"Ah, that's something you'd love, wouldn't you?" asked the man's wife poking him with her elbow.  
  
"Unfortunately not, Matej. She's working nightshifts this week."  
  
Luka felt as if he was falling into emptiness. His stomach turned over, and he was suddenly icy cold. A sticky sweat covered his forehead and the palms of his hands. A Canadian? A Canadian that spoke Croatian and worked nightshifts in Chicago? Was he going insane? Oh God. This was nothing he'd experienced before; no nightmares, no reliving of past experiences, but had all the uncanny quality of a bout of Post Traumatic Stress. He suddenly realised he had stopped breathing, and as if from far away, he heard Susan's concerned voice.  
  
"Luka? Would you like us to leave?"  
  
He lifted his gaze, and met Carter's and Susan's concerned faces. Their eyes were wide. How long had he been in shock? He hadn't noticed Susan coming back from the ladies room. He was freaking them out. He had to get a grip on himself, and soon. He took a deep breath, and swallowed back the lump in his throat. He shook his head.  
  
"No, no. . ." He protested, weakly. "I think. . . I'll go wash my hands."  
  
He stood up and stumbled blindly to the restroom. He would gain a couple of minutes there, hopefully enough to get back his composure. He washed his face in cold water, and gripped the sink hard, as he attempted to breathe regularly, finding a weak reassurance in the smooth, solid surface. Then he wiped his face and looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The man that stared back had a sickly tint on his face. No wonder Susan and Carter were alarmed. Come on, Kovac. Get yourself together, he chided himself. With a not so sure hand, he took the handle of the door and went back into the restaurant.  
  
When he got back to the table, the starters were already there. He welcomed the food as a source of distraction. After explaining to Carter and Susan what they had on their plates, he attacked his own with a faked appetite. A couple of mouthfuls and a couple of sips of wine later, he was actually feeling better, and he even succeeded in starting a new line of conversation, one about a Sushi restaurant Carter had recently discovered. He casually remarked they should take Susan there, knowing fully well she hated raw fish. She grimaced and pouted, and Luka smiled, having attained the intended effect. He sighed inwardly. Good. That would convince them he was doing fine. They would get on with their celebration. He would deal with his private demons later âand alone.  
  
However, his hopes of avoiding an explanation about his distress were let down at the end of the meal. When they were having coffee and sharing an extremely sweet dessert, Susan suddenly attacked the matter.  
  
"What happened before with this couple, Luka? What were they talking about?"  
  
Luka stared at her, trying not to let his dessert spoon fall. She had never been so straightforward about anything connected to his past. He then let his gaze fall on the table and slowly, deliberately, spooned a bite of dessert, desperately seeking for a suitable answer. He didn't find one, so he stuck the spoon in his mouth. He chewed slowly, still with his sight fixed on the dish in front of him. Finally, he gulped.  
  
"Look, Susan. . . I don't want to talk about it. . ."  
  
He looked up, met their stares, and stopped short. What he saw in Carter's and Susan's eyes shocked him still. There wasn't any pity, any morbid fascination. What he saw was care, and a kind of concern he had only seen in Tata's eyes before. They really wanted to understand.  
  
"It's all right. . ." Susan whispered, immediately ashamed of her question, and Luka felt how the ice barrier which he had often felt separated him from everybody in America, and which had momentarily melted under Carter's and Susan's gazes, started to build up again. Did he really want to keep them at an arm's length? Suddenly, he made his decision.  
  
"No. . . It's all right," he protested. "I mean, thanks for asking. . ."  
  
The barrier was getting thicker, and Luka struggled against his lack of ability to express himself.  
  
"I mean. . . uh. . ." He stopped short again, not knowing what to say that wouldn't sound like polite pleasantries.  
  
"It didn't have anything to do with the war," he suddenly confessed.  
  
Then he blushed. Carter and Susan were now gaping at him.  
  
"But uh. . . I'd rather not talk about it right now. I'll. . . I'll tell you later, O.K.? When I've figured it out."  
  
Now his cheeks were burning. He asked himself if he sounded as a madman. He stared at the crumbs on the tablecloth once again and waited, not daring to look up. He heard Susan chuckle uncomfortably.  
  
"Guess I screwed it up royally. . . Neither of you guys is going to say anything and save a damsel in distress?"  
  
Luka cast an oblique glance at them, at a lack for words. Carter cleared his throat.  
  
"How about a game of darts? 'The bull and the dragon' is not far away. . . I have to set my scores with you, Luka."  
  
Luka smiled, relieved. A week before Chuck and him had beaten Carter and Susan in a game of darts.  
  
"I knew you'd come up with something!" Susan exclaimed, patting Carter's forearm.  
  
"I'll get the check," Luka said, as he rose from the table, a smile on his face.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
Luka sipped at the last remains of his cold coffee and cast another look at the door of the restaurant. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He had sat there for over four hours and had had five cups of coffee. He rubbed his eyes with a hand, closed the book he had been pretending he was reading and stood up. After having paid the check, he went out of the coffee shop and, casting one last look at the door of the little restaurant, he started to make his way to the EL. His shift started in half an hour.  
  
He had been going to that same coffee shop for three days now. He arrived at five or five thirty, sat on the same spot, facing the door of the restaurant across the street, asked for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie and took a book out of his pocket. Usually the pie remained almost untouched on the table; the book stayed open in the same page for hours. His eyes kept on wandering at the door of the restaurant, his mind meandering back to the damned bit of conversation he had overhead over a week ago. He knew this was stupid, stalking the restaurant to see if she showed up, but he didn't know what else to do.  
  
He had tried to dismiss the mad idea that the person these people were referring to was Gillian. If she had decided to stay in Chicago she would have told him. She would at least have told Carter, wouldn't she? Besides, she had no grounds whatsoever for wanting to move. She had a job and a life in Montreal, didn't she? One didn't just change country as one changed clothes; Luka knew that only too well. One had to have powerful reasons for emigrating. And what would Gillian's be? She had no acquaintances in Chicago besides Carter and him. Nursing jobs were not better paid in the States than in Canada. She wasn't running from anything. Or was she? What could she be running from? And why was she running just now? And why would she choose Chicago to run to, of all places?  
  
After a couple of days driving himself crazy with all those questions, he had decided to forget the whole business and get back to his own life. He worked hard at County, worked hard on his PT, started going out in long walks. He went out to the movies every time he had the chance, went out with Carter and Abby and Susan, invited Professor Perkins over for coffee, bought a couple of new novels. He tried to go to bed physically and mentally exhausted, but no matter what he did, he couldn't concentrate and couldn't sleep. His books remained unread on the nightstand; he often couldn't follow the thread of the movies he saw, and his mind often wandered off during his conversations. Luckily, he still managed to focus on his job, mostly out of sheer terror or making mistakes, but his lack of concentration had reached such a high peak that everybody around him had noticed. He had got wary and tactful questions from Carter, brusque and straightforward ones from Susan, discreet hints from Abby. He had got concerned stares from Professor Perkins. Hell, even Romano had once asked him how he was doing. That had been the day he decided to forget about forgetting and try to make out who these people in the restaurant had been talking about.  
  
He had thus started watching the restaurant, in hope that she might appear some day. Soon he had admitted to himself that his way of finding out if the person these people alluded to was Gillian was utterly foolish. He felt terribly self-conscious in the coffee shop. The waitresses watched him with a wary eye. Time passed by with the speed of grass growing. But he honestly didn't know what else to do. He had thought of crossing the street and asking the old lady about her conversation last week, but had soon admitted to himself it was an absurd request. And he really could do without any more awkward conversations like the ones he had had on the phone, when trying to locate Gillian. So he had decided to stay and do his daily vigils. Every five minutes he prayed the owner wouldn't come out, cross the street and threaten to beat the crap out of him if he continued keeping the door of his restaurant under surveillance.  
  
Luka got into the EL, sat down and took a deep breath. He had a long shift in front of him and he was exhausted. He hadn't been this tired before going to work since the days he had relied on vodka and one night stands to try to fill up the empty stretch of days and nights, before travelling to the Congo.  
  
In the past few weeks, thanks to his readings but, most of all, thanks to the budding friendship he'd started with Carter and Susan, he had thought he had come over the worthlessness of his life, but now it was as if he'd plunged back into the void. He felt as if he was back in square one, too tired and too disheartened to continue with the game.  
  
He wondered whether he should try something else. Talk to somebody. Talk to Carter, maybe talk to Susan. But, what would he tell them? That he obsessed about a weird conversation he'd just happened to overhear a week ago and that it had thrown him back into depression? That he couldn't get rid of those words and, at the same time, he was too scared to find out whether it related to a woman he barely had come to know? That was absurd.  
  
He buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he lifted his head again, the train was coming to his stop. He stood up, leaning on his cane and grabbing the railing above his head for support and stood in front of the door. Whatever he did with himself, he'd have to push the thoughts away for the moment. He had work to do, he reminded himself as he descended the steps to the street.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  


* * *

  
"Here he comes, Evelyn," Maggie said, coming to the counter.  
  
Evelyn looked up and through the wide windows of the local. The tall dark haired guy from the previous evenings was coming down the street heading for the door of their coffee shop. She glared at him openly, and she thought she could see him blush slightly as he cast an oblique glance at her. Nevertheless, he came in, paused for an instant and hobbled his way towards the table he'd made his usual spot during the past few days. Evelyn looked back at Maggie, an unspoken question in her eyes.  
  
"It's your turn," Maggie said, handing her the coffee pot.  
  
Evelyn took the pot and turned around to get a mug from the shelf, grimacing in disgust. They didn't like this guy, not a single bit. He'd been coming every evening for the last week and just sat there, ogling at the door of the restaurant across the street.  
  
Despite his nice looks and elegant clothing (his hair was neatly cut and he was always clean shaven; he always wore a suit and a tie, his shoes were immaculately shiny) there was something suspicious about him, about the way he pretended to be reading but instead cast sideways glances at the street, about his hesitant gestures, pale skin and dark shadows under his eyes. It was as if he was trying to hide something. And his strong accent didn't help dispel the shady impression he made.  
  
Maggie and Evelyn had considered asking him to leave, but they were a bit afraid to do so. What if he went into a fit of rage? He was much taller than them and seemed a bit dangerous. And they couldn't just call the police. However suspicious his attitude was, he kept to himself and didn't bother any of the other customers. They had also considered alerting the owner of the restaurant across the street, but they thought it was, after all, none of their business. What if this foreign guy was part of some kind of mafia and wanted to settle some account with the foreigners on the other side of the street? What if he found out they had alerted the owner and decided to get some kind of retaliation? They didn't want to get into trouble, there was no need for that. So they had just tried to make it clear for him they didn't like him and would rather not have him in their shop. They hadn't had any success, however. Although he seemed to get uncomfortable enough under their stares, he had kept coming every day and stayed on his self designated spot for long hours, drinking endless cups of coffee.  
  
Evelyn took the mug to the man's table and put it on the hard surface, with a little bit more force than necessary. The man jumped at the loud thud and looked at her, startled.  
  
"Coffee, as usual?" Evelyn asked.  
  
"Yes, thank you," he whispered.  
  
"All right," she replied, as she served him. "Anything to go with it?"  
  
"A slice of apple pie, please."  
  
"We don't have apple pie."  
  
He sighed.  
  
"Okay. . . a slice of pecan pie, then."  
  
She shook her head ruthlessly, but with a bit of wariness. Would he get angry? Or would he take the hint and leave instead? He did neither. Patiently, he drew his breath and with impeccable manners, he asked:  
  
"Do you have any pie?"  
  
"I think there's some cheesecake left."  
  
"All right, I'll have cheesecake."  
  
She nodded and left, annoyed that he hadn't taken the hint. This guy had, apparently, a very thick skin and wouldn't be budged by subtle allusions.  
  
A moment later, she came back and let the dish with the piece of cheesecake drop hard on the table. She noticed how he winced at the noise, but he didn't take his eyes from the book in front of him. She turned around airily and went to the counter.  
  
She watched him out of the corner of her eye from time to time while she served the other customers. As usual, he spend most of his time looking at the front of the restaurant, only catching casual glances to the page in front of him. He didn't seem to notice it took her long to refill his cup, longer than it took her to serve the other clients.  
  
She was refilling his cup for the fourth time when she suddenly noticed him tense. She looked at him. His face had grown paler, if possible, and he was staring fixedly at the other side of the street. She followed his gaze, but could only see the door of the restaurant slowly closing. Somebody must have entered the local. She heard him clear his throat. She looked at the pot. The coffee was about to spill over. With a quick movement, she righted the pot and, not even condescending to have another look at him, went back to the counter. Once there, however, she glanced back.  
  
"Did you see that?" she asked Maggie.  
  
"See what?"  
  
"Him," answered Evelyn with a nod.  
  
Maggie looked at him. The man was still glaring across the street, white as a sheet. He wasn't even trying to conceal his interest on the restaurant anymore.  
  
"What did he see?"  
  
Evelyn shrugged.  
  
"I don't know. . . Should we call 911?"  
  
"And what would we tell them? That we have this foreign guy staring across the street?"  
  
"Well, no. . . but. . ."  
  
"Let's just wait and see, Eve. . . Wait and see. . ." Maggie repeated, trying to sound confident.  
  
About an hour later, their wait became fruitful. The guy suddenly stood up, put some bills on the table, put his coat on and gathered his book as fast as he could. He hurried out of the coffee shop without a word. Maggie and Evelyn looked across the street and saw a petite woman heading down the street. In a brief moment, the man had crossed the street and reached her, which was amazing taking into account how pronounced his limp was. He called out to her, and she turned around. A look of dread crossed her face and her eyes widened.  
  
"That's it," said Maggie taking the phone. "I'm calling the police."  
  
Luka's heart had missed a beat when he saw her going into the restaurant. Oh God. It was her. It WAS her. He couldn't possibly be so delusional. . .  
  
What now? What was he going to do? He swallowed hard, trying to think. Focus, Kovac. Should he follow her? No, he decided a minute later. She was obviously a friend of the owners. Whatever happened between them, Luka didn't want to have any witnesses of their first conversation. He was accurately aware of his clumsiness with words to have to worry about other people overhearing them.  
  
He thought briefly of writing her a note and have somebody deliver it to her across the street, before laughing at himself for having that thought. Who would deliver it? Certainly not one of the two waitresses, who obviously didn't think very well of him. And what would he write? Hello, I was just having coffee across the street when I happened to see you coming in? Ridiculous. No, he'd rather wait until she came out, then he could walk with her to the EL. But what was he going to tell her? Jesus. He sighed. All right, one step at a time. First, gather courage enough to go to her. Then figure out what to say. She would have supper in the restaurant, anyway. He would have plenty of time to think about something.  
  
An hour later, he was wondering whether she would make it out of the restaurant before he had to head back to County for his shift, when he saw her appear at the door. Impulsively, he stood up and headed out. He crossed the street without looking either way, damning his limp and wishing he could walk faster. Desperate, afraid she would disappear around the corner, he called out her name and, as if in slow motion, he saw her jump and turn around to face him. A minute later, he was standing beside her, so close their bodies almost touched. Luka stared, hardly daring to believe that she was in front of him. He looked at her, desperately trying not to blink, fearing she would disappear the second he closed his eyes.  
  
"Uh. . ." he stammered. "Hi, Gillian. . ." He sounded like a complete idiot. Hadn't an hour been time enough to rehearse? He berated himself.  
  
"Jesus Luka! You scared me!" Gillian exclaimed, and then she smiled, and covered her mouth with her hand.  
  
She blushed, and Luka couldn't help but noticing how beautiful she was. He stared at her openly, but as soon as he noticed how her cheeks gradually turned a deep shade of red, he lowered his gaze.  
  
"I. . . uh. . ." He had completely forgotten the careful speech he had prepared in the coffee shop and was facing a big blank in his mind. Concentrate, Kovac, concentrate. Tell her.  
  
"I'm very. . . very happy to see you again," he said in one go, staring at his feet.  
  
He then gathered enough courage to cast a sideways glance at her face. She seemed shocked. Oh God. He was screwing it up.  
  
"Really?" Asked Gillian, and mentally slapped her forehead. How idiotic could she come to sound?  
  
Luka stared straight into her eyes and smiled. His smile was wide, and lit his whole face.  
  
"Yes. I'm happy I found you."  
  
Gillian couldn't stand his direct gaze any longer. She looked down and clasped her hands together.  
  
"Oh, Luka I'm sorry, I. . ."  
  
And then she figured out what he'd just said. Her forehead creased.  
  
"You were looking for me?"  
  
He cleared his throat and looked away.  
  
"Well. . . yeah, sort of. . . I tried calling your apartment." He wiped his eyes with his hand, in a nervous gesture. "I tried calling your mother too."  
  
"Oh God," Gillian took a hand to her mouth. "You called Christmas Day!"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Oh, Luka. I'm so sorry. She's been pissed off with me because I moved out of Montreal. . . She said somebody had called me, but she was still too angry to tell me who it was. She wasn't rude with you, was she?"  
  
Luka grinned nervously.  
  
"Well, no. . . Not exactly." He looked at her, and looked away once again.  
  
"How are you doing?" Come on, Kovac, he thought. Could you have found a more commonplace sentence?  
  
"I'm fine. . ." She hesitated.  
  
She was feeling more and more embarrassed by the moment. How was she supposed to explain to him that she'd been living in Chicago for several months and had never tried to contact him? How to convince him it wasn't because she wasn't interested in seeing him, talking to him? There was no easy way to explain it.  
  
"Listen, why don't we. . ."  
  
Suddenly, a patrol car stopped by them with a loud screech of tires. A policeman jumped from it.  
  
"Freeze!" he screamed, drawing out his weapon and pointing it at Luka.  
  
Luka's eyes widened in shock. Out of a reflex, he immediately dropped his cane and lifted his hands behind his head. Without asking anything, the policeman grabbed him from the collar of his coat, and jostled him against the patrol.  
  
"Spread your legs! Hands where I can see them!"  
  
The other officer had stepped from the patrol and was also pointing his gun at Luka. Then Gillian reacted.  
  
"What the hell are you doing? Leave him alone!" she screamed.  
  
"What?" asked the officer, and Gillian felt like slapping his face.  
  
"He's my friend! Leave him alone!"  
  
The officer turned around and stared at her.  
  
"We got a call about an assault on this street. Is he molesting you in any way miss?"  
  
"No, of course not!"  
  
Gillian grabbed the officer by the arm and shoved him away in the middle of her rage. She got to Luka, who was standing by the police car, leaning heavily against it and shaking madly. Jesus. She didn't want to think what kind of experiences he must be reliving, being held at gunpoint.  
  
"Luka. . ." she called softly to him. "Luka, are you O.K.?"  
  
Slowly, Luka opened his eyes and looked up. The police officer in front of him had lowered his weapon and was looking warily at him. He noticed Gillian's hand on his forearm and looked at her. He managed a tentative smile and tried to breathe normally. He was terrified.  
  
"Yeah," he muttered.  
  
Gillian's hand gently made him turn around and helped him support himself on the car. The officer who had first pointed at him was holding his cane. Luka took it and stood up on shaky legs.  
  
"I'm really sorry, sir. We got a call and you matched the description."  
  
"It's all right," Luka answered. He wanted to get past this as fast as possible.  
  
"No, it's not all right," Gillian protested. "You should have checked before! You can't just go around pointing at people with your guns!"  
  
"I'm sorry, miss," the officer apologised. "But sometimes if we don't act rapidly. . ."  
  
"That's just no excuse!" Gillian yelled.  
  
There was a small crowd gathering around them, and Luka was suddenly very self-conscious.  
  
"It's okay, Gillian. Let's leave it like that."  
  
"No, Luka, we can't. . ." Suddenly his hand was on top of her forearm, and she noticed he was still trembling.  
  
"Please," he whispered.  
  
She couldn't understand why he wanted to drop the matter. They should file a formal complaint against these two barbarians, so they learnt that they couldn't go around threatening the citizens they should be protecting, but somehow Luka's pleading look made her give up.  
  
"Okay," she said.  
  
"We're really sorry, sir. Miss," said the officer, climbing back into his car.  
  
The little crowd that had gathered around them slowly started to melt away, and Luka attempted a few steps. He had to lean heavily on his cane. Gillian took her arm around his waist and supported him as they walked.  
  
"Geez, what a raid," she commented.  
  
Luka chuckled half-heartedly.  
  
She looked up at his face. He was still deadly pale, but somehow he didn't seem as ill as before. At least, he didn't look as if he was about to faint.  
  
"Listen, Luka, I was about to invite you to a cup of coffee. . . Are you still up to it?"  
  
He looked down at her, and beamed a full blown smile. Gillian's heart was hit by a warm wave. She hadn't seen him smile that way since. . . Since they had danced together in the Congo.  
  
"Willingly," he answered, and slowly, hesitatingly, praying she wouldn't step away, he draped his free arm across her shoulders.  
  
Together, they made their way down the street and disappeared around the corner. 


End file.
